Fit to Serve
by Another Name For Rose
Summary: Even after wresting his freedom from the Lich King's grasp, Koltira's troubles are far from over. Enter Sylvanas the Banshee Queen, an undead mastermind intent on eliminating weakness from her newest servant. Taken deep within the Undercity and left to starve, can Koltira cling to the remnants of his humanity? And what's up with him and Thassarian?
1. Blood and Hunger

_**AN - This is going to be a short story, only three chapters or so. The world and characters are slightly AU but still belong to Blizzard. Please enjoy.**_

* * *

He was starved for pain, parched for blood. It hadn't been so bad at first, just a minor annoyance and distraction, but as the days wore on Koltira was beginning to feel more than slightly unhinged. He could see nothing in the darkness of his cell, even with his near-perfect vision. The glow from his eyes had dimmed so far as to be almost nonexistent. He could see nothing, but he heard too much.

 _Blood,_ Byfrost whispered. _We are famished._

 _Shut up,_ Koltira told the runeblade. The sword had never been a good conversationalist even in the best of times, and now it was trying his patience with its incessant demands for death and suffering. Koltira felt the needs himself, but in this case shared misery only meant twice as much pain. There was nothing that could be done, as far as Koltira could see, besides wait.

He'd only ever had a hunger this bad once before, when he'd displeased the Lich King and had been forbidden from sating his desires. But then he'd had Thassarian to talk to, work to distract him. Here in the bowels of the Undercity, there was only crushing darkness and a whinging runeblade to keep his mind off the hunger.

Around the second or third day (it was difficult to keep track of time), Koltira had rediscovered sleep. It had been forbidden in the Scourge, as even death knights could have dreams, but the Horde had no such restrictions. It had helped some at first. By now, though, sleep and waking were blurring together, until he was both dreaming and hungering at the same time. He never had the sorts of dreams one of the living might have. His were memories, clear and sharp enough to cut bone. Most days he remembered the death and destruction he had blindly wrought as a servant of the Lich King, lived it again and again without the pleasure that had come from each kill. Koltira had once been told that it was impossible for a death knight to feel remorse, but Thassarian always did call him a rule-breaker.

 _He would know._ It had been an unspoken law among the Scourge: Those who fall behind are left behind. When the Scarlet Crusade had captured Koltira, Thassarian hadn't given up. Now the blood elf half-wished his friend's impulsiveness would bring him once more to Koltira's rescue. The other half was silently begging Thassarian to stay away from the Undercity, for Sylvanas had made it abundantly clear what she thought of the Alliance-bound death knight, and what she thought should happen to him.

Thinking about the Banshee Queen made Koltira's insides clench with rage. She had no right to his life. He was not one of her mindless playthings to be rearranged and reassembled at her whim.

The hatred calmed his mind somewhat, though Byfrost hummed irritatingly at his shift in mood. Body and mind still wracked with hunger, he drifted off.

 _It had been a perfect day until Sylvanas came for him. The sky above Andorhal was lightly overcast. A gray day, tasting faintly of metallic rain and even more faintly of the cloying Plague. He'd been with Thassarian that morning, on the vague pretext of exchanging intelligence._

 _The human looked up from honing the edges of his runeblades, pale hair shifting around his face in a manner that was most distracting. "Koltira," he rumbled. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"_

 _"Our scouts say the Scourge will attack this afternoon. They've been mobilizing their forces since dawn." He slid casually into a chair across from Thassarian, tossing formality out the window as he did._

 _To Koltira's mild surprise, Thassarian scowled. "You know our betters don't approve of this...relationship. You're asking for trouble just by showing yourself here."_

 _Koltira laughed scornfully. "Since when have you ever given a damn about what our 'betters' did and did not approve of? I always knew you were the feminine energy of the two of us."_

" _Says the blood elf," Thassarian grunted._

 _At this, Koltira grinned. "Ouch. Feisty today, are we?"_

" _That's only a part of it." He shot a furtive glance around the room and lowered his voice. "Doesn't this seem...wrong to you? The Scourge aren't usually so obvious."_

 _Koltira waited for him to say something else, but nothing was forthcoming. That was Thassarian's way, brief and to the point. "It's a little odd, but since we cut off their supply lines they must be desperate. Scared, are you?"_

 _Thassarian glowered at his recently sharpened runeblades. "No. Yes. I'm uneasy. It's simply not like them."_

" _Blunt, quick, and with no overabundance of intelligence? Seems exactly like the Scourge." Thassarian's worry put Koltira on edge. It was unlike a death knight to express much emotion, and fear was considered downright shameful._

 _Thassarian seemed to sense Koltira's misgivings. He offered a wry smile. "I'm not going to let it get to me. I will focus solely on the coming slaughter, and keeping you alive."_

 _Koltira grinned. "Why, Thassarian, how touching! You mean you'd be willing to take your mind off killing long enough to help me?"_

 _"You are not going to die the second death on my watch," the knight rumbled. "I am the only one allowed to kill you." He stroked the flat of one of his runeblades with as much fondness as a death knight could possess, apparently lost in happy memories._

 _"So it's less a question of sentiment and more of jealousy?" That, Koltira could understand. Sentiment was another emotion unworthy of a death knight... His insides gave a guilty squirm. What, then, was his own desire to see Thassarian so often? What then was the uncomfortable...lack of cold in his dead chest when he watched Thassarian fight?_

 _Across the table, icy blue eyes swept back to meet his gaze. For a moment, Koltira thought he saw something in them, some flash of red hunger. "Your blood," Thassarian said quietly, "was the most succulent thing ever spilled across Ilfang's length. Your fleeing lifeforce was the sweetest thing I have ever known in life or undeath."_

 _Koltira stared. An icy flush crept over his face. Suddenly he was the unbalanced one, he who had always been so certain and rooted. Dimly, his mind became aware that Thassarian had shown him up. Amidst the turmoil of Koltira's thoughts (_ emotions _), there suddenly emerged a fierce determination to be the most reckless one. He lunged across the table._

 _Koltira's long, slender fingers, empowered by the gift of undeath, dug into Thassarian's unarmored shoulders. Their cold lips met, hard enough to bruise a mortal mouth. It was harsh and unyielding. It was nothing like a kiss. Koltira bit down hard, exulting in the taste of Thassarian's corrupted ichor._

 _The human growled like a wild thing, roughly seizing Koltira's hair with one hand and slamming the other into the table, sending out a pulse of rot to collapse the wood. Koltira fell on him, sending them both sprawling. The chair shattered, someone was cut by a runeblade. It did not matter who, for their pain ran together, pleasuring both._

 _They had never talked of these feelings. They never needed to. Until now, both had done their best to ignore them. Koltira suspected that it had made this eventual outburst so much wilder._

 _Thassarian tore Koltira's tunic in his haste to remove it. It wasn't until the elf saw his own tattooed chest heaving with breaths it did not need that he realized the full extent of the lack of control between them. It did not frighten him as it might one of the living, but rather envigorated him. He bit ferociously at the smooth expanse of Thassarian's throat, like a wolf with a stag. His hands worked furiously at the fastens of shirt, belt, breeches, determined that there should be nothing separating them._

 _Beneath his clothing, Thassarian's body was pale and cold, hard with muscle. Koltira slid a hand downwards, then paused. "Are you sure your superiors would approve of this?" he asked innocently._

 _"Bite me, elf," Thassarian growled, eyes glinting. Koltira obliged._

 _Their undead flesh required more force to pleasure than a living man's, but Koltira (now flat on his back, eyes closed, a groan of pain and ecstasy on his lips) found this suited him just fine. The elf felt sure neither of them would have survived the tryst for long had they not been already dead._

 _Thassarian had him pinned. Koltira couldn't have breathed even if he felt so inclined. The larger death knight's fingers traced the thick scar that rent Koltira's abdomen, pressing hard on the sensitive part that had never fully healed. "Do you remember when I killed you?" His voice was husky, and about as emotional as it ever got._

 _Koltira bared his teeth at the lance of pain. "Vividly."_

 _"Your blood, slick and hot, pouring over my hands and runeblades. Ilfang and Mjormr begged me for another taste after I withdrew them from your lifeless corpse." He was close enough for Koltira to smell the cold metallic scent of snow about his hair. His voice dropped to a whisper. "I remember watching your eyes as I stabbed you, watched the light in them flicker and die. No death ever caused me as much pain, nor has any since been so intoxicating."_

 _Koltira shuddered, caught somewhere between horror and arousal at the words, the memory. The elf's frozen, long-dormant heart gave a sudden twitch, as if straining to pick up a beat once more._

 _Thassarian's hand slid between his legs again-_

"Oh, I'm sorry," crooned a voice. "Were you _sleeping?_ How cute."

Koltira jerked awake, snapping out of the memory. Red eyes glinted in the gloom above him. "Sylvanas," he spat by way of greeting.

She grinned, showing off teeth filed to points. Koltira became aware of a faint light in his cell, although its source was indiscernible. "Have you been enjoying your accommodations?" she purred, every bit the genteel host.

Koltira dragged himself to his feet. "Oh yes. Spacious quarters, fine dining, room service-a five-star establishment you're running here. Although your doorman seems to have misplaced my baggage..."

"You'll get Byfrost back when you are fit to serve. I'm afraid I don't trust your judgment when it comes to slaughter. Death knights make poor soldiers, I am finding. Arthas, that soul-stealing bastard, had the right of it when it came to servants. Free will means mistakes, especially if the servant in question has shown a disappointing propensity for _mercy._ " She sighed in mock distress. " _What_ am I to do with you, Koltira?"

"Well," he offered, "you could return my runeblade and set me on my merry murderous way."

"Could I? Last time I let you loose, you sought out your old flame from the Scourge, and _didn't kill him_ , despite the fact that he is now a knight of the Alliance." She pouted. "You see my problem?"

Koltira eyed the chain around his left wrist. "Truly, I weep for you, my lady."

"Don't poke fun now, I know death knights can't physically cry." Her expression brightened. "I know! Why don't we arrange a little visit between the two of you? Maybe in a week, when you're blind and mad with desire for blood?"

Ice formed on the damp floor around Koltira's feet. "You would not. You could not."

"That's for me to know and you to find out!" Sylvanas crowed. "Oh, I can't wait. It will be simply _delectable_ to watch. Perhaps I'll throw a party! Yes, I'll invite all the notables. And there's a catering service that does birthdays, anniversaries, and executions; they have the _best_ hors d'oeuvres and tortilla chips..."

Koltira felt sick, which was an achievement for an undead construct. He glared at Sylvanas defiantly. "You'll never _cure_ me that way. You'll never change who I am."

"Oh, I don't expect to. _You_ will change who you are." She took a prim little step forwards and placed a hand on his bare chest, sending a needle of pain through Koltira's body. "We are going to have _such_ fun," she purred.

* * *

Varian Wrynn, King of Stormwind, leader of the Valiance Expedition, Champion of Goldrinn, and beloved Lo'Gosh of Dire Maul paced furiously in his throne room. "How many times do I have to tell you? My answer remains the same: No. I won't send out searchers, I won't tell Mathias to ready SI:7. I will do nothing unless you give me concrete information and a reason why this would in any way hurt the Horde."

"I have concrete information, and it will hurt the Horde," Thassarian growled. "He's definitely in the Undercity. And that's where Sylvanas wants him in order to craft him into a weapon. I know Koltira Deathweaver. He's a deadly fighter, but a good elf. If that witch succeeds in removing his empathy..."

"What does one more champion of the Horde matter? I will not risk the lives of my people to rescue a blood elf from Sylvanas's kingdom."

 _What does it matter? What did it matter when your wife died, o wise king? What did it matter when your best friend killed your father figure?_ Thassarian clenched a fist and struggled to contain his temper. However much this man frustrated him, he was a king and Thassarian had need of him.

Unless...

 _Foolish,_ he told himself. _You've nowhere near enough money._

Perhaps he could use some spoil from the Undercity as payment...

The idea had taken root. After the king's guards threw him out, Thassarian spent a few minutes in quiet contemplation of this plan that could not possibly work. He was being a fool, he suspected. Koltira always said-

Thassarian's jaw creaked as he clenched it. Koltira wasn't here. Koltira was in the Undercity, probably being tortured or otherwise mutilated by the Banshee Queen's servants.

 _This won't be as easy as the Scarlet Crusade,_ he thought grimly.

He needed a tavern. There was no shortage of these in Stormwind, but to find the right one...

The Gilded Rose was out. Plenty of people hung around the Trade District, but the wrong sorts of people. Too clean, too legitimate. The Slaughtered Lamb and Blue Recluse wouldn't give him what he sought either. He didn't need a warlock or mage. That left the seedy Pig and Whistle in Old Town. Yes, that would do just fine.

It was a smoky, dimly lit establishment and none too clean. As Thassarian entered, he drew suspicious eyes from the smattering of patrons, which he ignored. Death knights got used to dark glances and darker mutterings. The living didn't like them because they were dead, the dead didn't like them because they were former Scourge, and the Scourge didn't like them because, again, they were former Scourge. Even the Worgen had it better than those of the Ebon Blade.

Still, Thassarian reflected as he ordered a drink, at least they didn't attract the amount of skin-crawling loathing and animosity as that most depraved of races, the gnomes.

Thassarian glanced around, then approached the bar tender, who looked none too happy to see him. "I need a word passed around."

"Yeh ain't the first," the man muttered, not meeting the death knight's glowing eyes. "Yeh got coin?"

Wordlessly, Thassarian slid a handful of money across the counter. The bar tender's expression became significantly lighter. "Alright, whaddya need spread round?"

The death knight explained the conditions. Across the counter, the man went almost as pale as him.

"Yer crazy," he whispered. "Ain't no one gonna sign up for that. 'Specially if there's no pay."

"I am a knight of the Ebon Blade," Thassarian said, undeterred. "I am not mad. And there will be someone willing to take the job." He flipped another coin into a startled hand. "Spread the word. I'll be back."

He left the tavern, trying not to feel disappointed. What had he expected, for the man to say he already knew someone?

Every day, every hour, every second he was forced to wait grated against him. Koltira was on his own, having Light knows what done to him, while he, Thassarian, visited pubs.

He yearned to rush off on his own, caution be damned. But he knew Koltira would never forgive him for getting captured or killed.

For now, he could only grind his teeth and wait.

* * *

Koltira stood on a deserted road.

He'd no idea how he'd come to be there. It felt more real than a dream, more real even than reality.

He was slightly suspicious.

The forest that pressed against either side of the lonely dirt track was coniferous and blanketed with snow. It seemed like a place one would come across in Northrend.

Even in this strangely real otherworld, he was hungry.

Figures.

His senses tingled. Life was approaching. His sword arm twitched in ravenous anticipation. He could hear hurried footsteps coming down the road, could smell the scent of warm flesh wafting closer. Automatically, the elf stepped into the shadows and tensed his muscles in preparation. Cold fingers curled around the hilt of a frantically whispering runeblade. Whatever it was came closer...

The whispering reached an almost unbearable intensity as he leapt into the open, about to finally sate this terrible hunger-

A child. A small, dark human child in a little blue coat.

Koltira's few remaining shreds of humanity rebelled. The resulting spasm knocked the sword from his hands.

The child jumped back, startled. But not fearful. She wasn't old enough to be fearful of an undead warrior met alone on an abandoned byway in the dead of night... But just old enough to think she was in control. Her face broke into a wide smile and she burbled with laughter. What a fun game, to have this man surprise her. Perhaps they were playing hiders-searchers.

A tendon jumped in Koltira's neck as he remained frozen. If he moved at all, he would lose his grip on himself.

 _Blood,_ Byfrost whispered seductively. _Sweet pain._

" _Run,_ " Koltira choked out. " _Get away._ "

The child only looked at him, curious. Apparently this man wasn't playing the game, as he was neither counting nor seeking a place to hide.

His whole body was shaking. He stumbled back a step, fell, and the hunger gave a great leap inside of him. A howl tore free of him, and he sunk his teeth into his own arm in a desperate attempt to ease the pain.

 _You wouldn't need to kill her,_ the runeblade reasoned. _Just make a few cuts, listen to her screams._

The child, seemingly oblivious to the gargantuan struggle taking place before her, took a small step closer.

"No," Koltira groaned from the ground. "Run."

Instead, the child knelt by his head ( _where he could hear her beating heart, smell her breath and blood_ ). She touched a small hand to one of Koltira's pointed ears, evidently delighted. "Kitty!"

"KILL!" Koltira shrieked, partly because that was what Byfrost was screaming inside his head, partly because someone, somewhere, had just called him a kitty.

At this, the child's eyes finally were touched with fear. She seemed sufficiently unnerved to decide there were better places to be than right next to this twitching, wild-eyed stranger. She fled down the road.

It was this that sent him over the edge.

He could resist no longer, not when she was running like the little prey animal she was. Byfrost chattered excitedly at the prospect of a chase, a hunt. Koltira's hand found its hilt, and he was up and running.

Few things move faster than a starving death knight. Little blue-coated girls are not among them.

And he'd caught her-

And she was knocked down into the snow, Byfrost descending on her heart-

And she was crying now, because she was scared and this game was no longer fun-

And he couldn't do it, _he couldn't do it,_ even with every fiber of his being screaming for him to plunge the sword downwards and end this terrible pain.

He pushed himself away, flinging Byfrost into the trees. The little girl scrambled to her feet at once and scampered off into the darkness.

At first, Koltira thought he was panting from exertion. It was something of a habit he had, albeit an annoying one. But no, he realized, measuring the ragged quality of the breaths he drew and the strange urge he had to blink rapidly, his body was attempting to do something physically impossible for a death knight.

 _"You disappoint me, Koltira."_

He knew that voice. He spat a glob of black ichor in its general direction. "Go to hell," he growled.

 _"What, no flippant remarks or cocky banter? Where else am I supposed to get my entertainment?"_

"What do you want, Sylvanas?" He sat up and reached for Byfrost, then remembered he had thrown the sword away.

 _"I want you to behave yourself. Really, Koltira? A child? A_ disrespectful human brat _stirred your empathy?"_ The voice made disappointed _tchh_ ing noises. Koltira scanned the surrounding forest but couldn't see the Banshee Queen. Her voice was echoing and somehow distant.

 _"No matter... We can take this slowly, if it makes things easier. We'll try again tomorrow."_

It began to snow. Koltira retrieved Byfrost, then started in the direction he'd last heard Sylvanas's voice.

 _"What are you doing? Where do you think you're going?"_ Her tone was still amused, but now contained a note of strained calm.

Koltira said nothing, altering his course slightly.

 _"You think you can kill me?"_ He could hear the sneer in her voice. _"This is my world, death knight."_

An arrow hissed out of the darkness and embedded itself in Koltira's chest. He grunted in pain and paused briefly in his stride. A cursory inspection revealed that the shaft was protruding directly from his unbeating heart. Even though he was undead, it hurt like hell. "It'll take more than that to stop me," he called into the growing snowstorm. He grit his teeth and trudged onwards, bowing his head against the biting wind.

" _I'm glad,"_ Sylvanas purred. " _Perhaps you're not a complete weakling after all."_

The next arrow struck Koltira between the shoulderblades and drove itself deep into his flesh. He cried out, stumbled, and started to run. If he found the origin of the voice, if he could satisfy this hunger by beheading Sylvanas, it would all be worth it.

Both his kneecaps shattered at the same time, shredded by twin arrows from two different directions. Several tendons in his legs tore free. He fell, striking the ground hard, blinded by pain. Soft footsteps approached as the wind died down. A boot kicked him roughly onto his back. Sylvanas stood over him, two arrows nocked in her monstrous bow. Her features twisted into a smirk. "Are you ready to give up and become the perfect instrument you were meant to be?"

"I will give up," Koltira managed through his pain, "when I can satisfy my hunger by sheathing Byfrost in your bitch's heart."

"I thought that might be your answer." She didn't look terribly disappointed; to the contrary she seemed delighted by his response. "Night-night, now." She raised the bow, drew back the string, and released.

Searing slivers of fire drove themselves into Koltira's eyes.

There was darkness, and there was silence.

He was in his cell. Had he passed out and been brought back? Had he ever been in that forest at all? With his free hand, he felt his face, feeling some pathetic scrap of relief when he found his eyes whole and sound. No pain gnawed at him but that of the terrible, ever-present hunger.

He tried to sleep, and failed.

* * *

"Find anyone?"

"It's been a single day."

"So no?"

"No."

* * *

He stood before a small town. Byfrost was slung over his shoulder. Something was odd about the scene...

Well, the village was in flames. Maybe that was it.

The terrified screams of its residents were a cool drink to the raw, dry hunger inside of him. He watched the people fleeing their homes and had a vague feeling he was being tested. He knew he did not want to kill fleeing villagers, but it was difficult to remain certain of this fact as Byfrost goaded him on. As he hesitated, a figure emerged from behind a burning house. He seemed wreathed in flames, which danced around his horned helm and threw ghastly shadows across the ground. He was laughing, not screaming. A torch was held in one hand, a sword on the other. Even from this distance Koltira could see the blood staining the blade. He set his jaw. He made a choice.

 _Yes,_ Byfrost agreed. It hummed with eagerness as it was unsheathed.

The man barely saw Koltira coming. After a brief, unsatisfying duel, the man slipped up and Byfrost howled with glee as it tasted blood for the first time in weeks. Koltira gasped at the shock of sudden relief. He twisted the sword in the man's chest, provoking a scream. It was delicious. He tore the runeblade free and ran the brigand through again, exulting at the sweetness of the man's pain. Finally, he wrenched Byfrost from the corpse and turned away. The sword's graven runes were black with blood in the flickering light of the fire.

Less than half a day later, his hunger had returned stronger than ever. He didn't understand. It should have taken weeks more for it to get this bad again. Now he felt crippled by terrible agony as if the shadowy tormentors had returned to stalk him once more. Upon seeing any living thing, he couldn't think, he could only act. Over the next few days, he was presented with several targets, each one more of a grey area than the last. A murderer, an enemy scout, a highway man trying to rob him. More and more, he could not resist the temptation. Every kill gave him increasing relief, increasing pleasure. And yet even as he sought frantically to ease the clawing hunger, with each kill he became more insatiable. He no longer thought, or looked, or cared.

 _"Good,"_ purred the voice, the voice that brought him prey.

* * *

 _ **AN - The first chapter of the story is always the most fun to write. Please review, I will respond to each comment.**_

 _ **\- - Rose**_


	2. Hunters All

Thassarian entered the Pig and Whistle without much hope. It had been weeks now, and always the man's answer was the same. Always he sent the death knight away empty-handed.

"I found someone."

"Thanks again, I'll come back in- " Thassarian began wearily. He paused. "Did you say you've...?"

"She's over there'n th' corner," the bar tender muttered with a jerk of his head. "Crazy as you are, I reckon."

Thassarian allowed his gaze to settle on the indicated figure. She was an adventurer, that much was clear from the combination of well-worn leather armor, elaborately molded spaulders, and a very fine dark blue cloak that was backed in mail. She had the hood drawn up, so the death knight could see no more of her features. He returned his eyes to the bar tender. "Thank you. You've no idea what this means to me."

"I'm not sure you do, either," the man grumbled, though he became perfectly pleasant once Thassarian slid most of his remaining money across the counter in a final payment.

The woman looked up at his approach. For a moment, Thassarian thought she was another death knight by the glow of her eyes but no, just a night elf. She pushed her hood back and stood, offering a hand and a smile. "Hey, the proprietor wasn't kidding, you really are a scary kind of guy. Glad I don't have to fight you. Esharae, the Explorer."

Thassarian took her hand warily, arching an eyebrow as his piercing gaze traveled over her silvery hair streaked with some kind of purple dye. "The Explorer?"

She met his gaze levelly. "I've seen every bit of land on Azeroth, and many that are a bit, ah, farther. If you'd prefer something a little more adventurey, I could go by Esharae, Bane of the Fallen King." She took a seat, and as she swept her cloak back Thassarian caught a glimpse of two glowing daggers. The sight reassured him.

"I need a job done," the death knight said. "I need to get into the Undercity, spring a prisoner, and make it back out. No payment but what you steal from the Forsaken."

"Which will be plenty, if the rumors of those experiments are true." Esharae smiled. "The proprietor explained the terms. However, I do require one more payment for my services: a favor to be named at a later time. It's something I always ask of my employers if the outcome of the job is...well, questionable."

Thassarian hesitated only briefly. His first impulse was to immediately decline. He couldn't trust this night elf, not given her line of work, and he certainly did not want to be beholden to her. But Koltira needed him, and needed someone with this elf's skills. "One favor to be named later," he agreed heavily.

"Good. Now as it happens, I'm in a bit of a lull between jobs and this sounds like my kind of deal. I'll take it, provided," she added, eyes narrowing, "that we are of the understanding that any double-cross, sell-out, or red chariot will have very unpleasant, squelchy consequences." She glared at him darkly, unnecessarily in Thassarian's opinion, and then hissed "Squelch, squelch, squelch" for no apparent reason.

"Right," he muttered, resigning himself to several days in her company. Adventuring was a risky business and seemed to have tipped this elf into a state of questionable sanity. "When can you leave?"

She smiled again, showing off fang-like canines. "My dear sir, I am an _adventurer._ "

This, apparently, meant she first had to get several seemingly arbitrary items in or out of a bank vault, bid on several auctions, wait around for them to end, and go fishing in the Canals because some old man offered her a soggy hat in exchange.

By the time they finally left the city, Thassarian was feeling none too kind towards the elf. "What was that all about?" he growled at her as they walked through the Valley of Heroes.

"Well, I couldn't leave all those tasks undone. I'm a business woman, you know." She shook her purse, which was too full to make any sort of noise. "Cheer up, it only cost us an hour or two."

Thassarian said nothing, allowing his icy silence to speak for him. As a death knight, he was quite good at icy silences. Perhaps the elf was wearing an Amulet of Resist Frost, because she didn't seem terribly perturbed. "Anyways," she continued brightly, "I might- we might need the extra money. Oh, here we are. Do you have a flying mount, death knight?"

"No," Thassarian admitted, though it galled him to see her look unsurprised. He longed to wipe that petulant smirk off her face, perhaps with Mjormr or Ilfang. Or even...

They were standing in the road on the outskirts of Elwynn, and the ground here was of a perfect consistency. Thassarian cleared his mind and focused on a word. _Dusk._

The temperature seemed to drop about ten degrees. The shadows thickened around them. Esharae looked around, alarmed. "Hey, what are you-"

The ground in front of her erupted in a shower of loose dirt, rocks, and bones. A high, metallic shriek rent the air as a skeletal horse burst into existence, bleached hooves flailing and eye sockets glowing with unholy power. The night elf yelled something less than complimentary in Darnassian and threw herself backwards, scrambling for her knives.

Thassarian gave a short, harsh laugh. "You've good reflexes, at least. _Dusk, to me._ "

The horse took its attention away from the night elf (now crouched in battle stance, daggers raised and ready) and trotted to Thassarian's side. He didn't need to give it vocal commands, as they were telepathically linked, but it sounded more impressive this way. He stroked Dusk's brittle white mane and watched Esharae's reaction.

The elf smiled shakily and sheathed her knives. "Nice ride. So that's the game we're playing?"

Putting two slender fingers to her lips, she gave a sharp whistle that Thassarian suspected was just as much for effect as his command had been. There was silence for a moment, then a dull thrum like a heartbeat came to Thassarian's perception. It grew louder and louder in his ears, and suddenly the sky above darkened. The death knight looked up. He didn't startle easily, but this did the trick. Descending upon their small company was a dragon, as skeletal and obviously dead as Dusk. Dark sinew was the only thing holding its bones together. Its skull grinned ferally at them with fangs like razors and eyes filled with blue fire. It bore a riding harness, a work of black leather and what looked like Saronite barding. Its serrated claws were long as swords and probably just as sharp. Two tattered wings held it aloft through some sorcery or another. The beast landed before them with an effect similar to an earthquake, making Dusk rear and champ his bit.

Thassarian rounded on Esharae, part grudging envy but mostly just suspicion. "How in the name of Yogg-Saron does an elven thief land herself a Vanquisher?"

"Sir, I must protest," Esharae said, laying a hand on her breast in feigned offense. "I am a law-abiding citizen. Who happens to make a living off killing people and stealing their stuff - but they were _all bad._ "

Thassarian looked at her more closely. With her glowing eyes and silver hair, she could well be a death knight. But he'd seen her daggers; they weren't enruned, and no self-respecting knight would ever be caught dead without a runeblade. Yet how else could she have found herself a Vanquisher, given only to the Lich King's favored servants?

Something clicked in his mind. _Bloody hell,_ he thought. _Bane of the Fallen King, indeed._ "You were an Argent Champion. One of the adventurers that confronted the Lich King in Icecrown."

Esharae smiled and made a sweeping bow. "Most humbly at your service. Now then, we've got a continent to cross. Ryce will take us there in short order, hop aboard."

Thassarian eyed the dragon. "You named your Vanquisher _Rice?_ "

The elf scowled. "Ry-ce," she corrected with inflection. "With a 'y'. And the 'e' makes a half-syllable. It's Darnassian for 'Little Pup with a Penchant for the Cold'."

Thassarian blinked, something he rarely did. He wasn't good with emotion, body language, or humor, so he couldn't tell whether or not the elf was being serious. "So I am to trust my second life to you and your 'Little Pup'?"

"It's a long way to Tirisfal Glades," the elf said simply.

Thassarian glanced between Dusk, his trusted charger that he himself had subdued in the Shadowrealm, and the tattered, grisly Vanquisher. He thought of Koltira, alone and in pain, being corrupted by the vile experiments of the Forsaken.

Five minutes later he was in the air, arms around Esharae's waist and eyes narrowed to slits against the harsh winds. Elwynn Forest lurched unpleasantly below them at every beat of Little Pup's wings. They were quite high, high enough that Thassarian was thankful he couldn't feel the cold. "How far can we get by nightfall?" he shouted to Esharae.

"Around the Wetlands, assuming we aren't attacked," she yelled back.

"And if we press on through the night?"

"Woah, there, Prince Charming, some of us need to sleep, you know."

Thassarian scowled in irritation. _Sleep._ Sleep was a luxury - and a weakness. "Then how far can we travel tomorrow?"

"We'll have reached Tirisfal by evening, but I'm not rushing in the moment we arrive at the Undercity."

"My friend- " Thassarian began.

" -will thank you for not getting him killed by charging in planless," Esharae said sharply. "This is the _Undercity_ we're talking about. An underground fortress with nigh on impenetrable security, watched over by Her Unholy Highness herself. We need at least a few days of recon before we even sit down at a table to plot our nefarious schemes."

The death knight's blood roared. " _A few days?_ Koltira could be dead by then! Or mutilated beyond the point of salvation! I hired you to do a job, not sit around calculating and fiddling with ideas!"

"You hired me," Esharae corrected with infuriating calm, "to rescue a prisoner. This I intend to do. I do not, however, intend to get killed in the process, as that would make it rather difficult to collect payment. So let me be clear: You do things my way, or you do them alone."

As much as he hated the facts, Thassarian knew that what the elf suggested was the best course of action. "Fine," was all he said, wishing he'd waited for a more reckless adventurer.

Dinner that evening was low-key. Thassarian killed some of the local wildlife to smooth the edges of his hunger, while Esharae hunted, roasted, and ate a quail. They sat upon the marshy ground in silence for a moment while the elf devoured her meal. Once she had licked the grease from her fingers, she reached into the folds of her cloak and drew out a broad-rimmed scarlet hat. Twirling it around one long finger, she cocked an eyebrow at Thassarian. "Beer?"

He welcomed the idea, but couldn't see where the elf might have a bottle or keg stored. When he expressed his doubts, the elf smiled knowingly and produced two frothing mugs of ale from the inside of the scarlet hat.

"Not a bad trick," Thassarian admitted, accepting his mug. He tipped it back, hoping it was strong, hoping it would ease the pain of concern ( _worry, fear_ ) caused by Koltira's absence from his side. His undead tongue tasted only pale shades of what flavors would be to the living, but early on in his freedom Thassarian had made the happy discovery that yes, he could still get drunk.

"Where did you get the hat?" he asked pleasantly, after the effects of the beverage had settled in. It must have been a dwarven brew because drinking it felt like being kicked in the head without (most of) the pain.

Esharae grinned from where she was sprawled amidst the long grass. The scarlet hat was perched on the tip of one long ear. "A dwarf in Outland gave it to me after I killed some birds for him."

"Do people always give you hats in exchange for work?"

"Nah, usually just gold. Or some old equipment they have lying around. It's a very lucrative business, if you do it right."

Thassarian considered this. He also considered how much easier life was in a scarcity-based economy when you had large quantities of gold. He considered, too, falling asleep, decided against it, and woke a few hours later to the palest rose of dawn.

Esharae was still passed out in the grass. The death knight winced. How easy would it have been for something to kill their defenseless bodies in the middle of the night?

"Up, elf," he said loudly. "We've many miles yet before us."

She rose without complaint, which surprised him. "Ryce," she muttered, "you forgot to set the alarm clock again."

Little Pup raised his head at the sound of his name. If undead monstrosities could sniff the air, he would have done so. It was time to be moving again.

* * *

The chained beast was nothing but hunger, a ravening maw consuming all that lay before it. A farm hand, his pleading wife, their little daughter in a blue coat. There was no hesitation, no emotion save fierce, savage pleasure. His last kill for the day was a tall, muscular man with pale hair and two glowing swords.

 _Yes,_ whispered the Voice. _You have passed the first test._

The blood-soaked scene dissolved around the beast. The words were meaningless to him, but the Voice always brought more prey. He eagerly awaited his next target. Instead, the swirling darkness settled into static darkness. The feeling of a cold chain around one sore wrist made the beast snarl with fury. _Restrained._

A— _the_ —Voice cut through his growling, amused. "Well done. You've made such progress! Perhaps a little reward is due." A light flickered dimly, and the owner of the Voice became visible. She held the beast's soul in one clawlike hand, a dark vial in the other. If the beast had been in his right mind, he would have been unsettled by the glint in her eye.

The vial was upended over Byfrost's length. The runeblade crowed in exultation as blood dripped over its furrows, and Koltira collapsed to the floor, shuddering. Curiously, the small amount of relief only worsened the crippling pain — and yet it restored to him some semblance of awareness. _Titans,_ he realized with abject horror, _I— I—_ "Thassarian," he whispered. He'd never thought anything could make him turn against his friend. And yet Sylvanas had done it simply by stripping him down to his basest self. He closed his eyes against the sudden wave of anguish. Yes, it had been in a twisted simulation, but if he'd met Thassarian in the real world…if his long time companion had broken into this cell and come to Koltira's aid… He twitched. He would never. _Never._ No matter how far gone he was.

Sylvanas watched his reaction with interest. "So… It doesn't take much to reawaken you. This will complicate matters, but it's no hardship." She flashed him a smile. "Well, no hardship for me, anyways."

"Why?" Koltira forced out.

"Why have I brought you back from such pleasant dreams? Well, we need to take things slow, but it would pain me to reduce you to a slavering ghoul. I want your ingenuity, your independent reasoning, and your willing loyalty, not merely your sword arm."

"Then you can give up now," Koltira growled. "After what you've done to me, I'd never serve you if my life depended on it."

"You're wrong," the banshee cooed. "Dear Koltira, it's _because_ of what I'm doing to you that you will eventually serve me. I know you don't feel that way now, but given another week I'm sure we can make it work."

"Never," the death knight growled.

Sylvanas clapped her hands. "Oh, but I forget!" she said gleefully. "You're waiting for your lover to come and rescue you. I'm sure dear _Thassarian_ will gallantly fight his way to your side just in time…" She was positively squirming in happy anticipation. "…for you to cut off his head and present it to me as a token of your fealty."

Wracked in pain as he was, Koltira still managed to stagger more or less upright and lunge at the twisted elf before him. His eyes were narrowed into furious slits, his teeth were bared in anticipation of tearing this woman's throat out. The chain brought him up short, his one unhindered hand not even coming close in its futile attempts to locate and crush a windpipe. Sylvanas crowed with high, cold laughter as Kotira strained against the manacle now biting deep into his flesh. The Banshee Queen waved the runeblade at him teasingly. "Ooh, a sore spot! Don't worry, in a week it will be erased."

Koltira slumped to his knees as his vision flickered menacingly. All his strength had fled, not even leaving him with the energy to argue. _Dammit, Thassarian, I hope you're smart enough to stay the hell away from here._

* * *

Thassarian glowered down at the ruins. More Forsaken today than usual. Not a good sign. He watched as a stooped man in tattered armor directed a large company of skeletal animations and grotesque patchwork abominations into formation. The group marched off eastward. The death knight slid from his vantage point on the hill and retraced his earlier steps back to the camp in the dead grove. There he found Esharae, wiping grime from her knives and muttering to herself. She threw down her supplies and stood as Thassarian approached. "Thank the Light," she said. "I'm so bored I was starting to hallucinate."

"Don't get too excited," he told her. "You're still the only living person in about twenty miles."

"Yeah, but at least now I can have a decent conversation." She cocked her head. "Is it true that a death knight's sword talks to him?"

"Yes," Thassarian admitted. "Ilfang and Mjormr aren't truly aware, they just voice their desires for blood and suffering."

"Lovely," the elf said dryly.

"Listening to them isn't always the most pleasant pastime," Thassarian sighed, seating himself on a half-rotted stump, "they tend to encourage reckless behavior. They are instruments with the sole purpose of sating hunger, caring nothing for the safety or wishes of their bearer." He remembered how Koltira had been after the Scarlet Crusade had gotten through with him. The tortures were bad, the elf admitted, but the hunger was worse. They'd taken his runeblade, chained him down, left him to starve.

 _Thassarian had wanted to kill them for it, hunt down each and every one of Koltira's tormentors. But seeing his friend stumble to his feet with a groan, the way he limped when he walked, Thassarian knew there was no time for that. He slid an arm around the elf, allowed him to lean his weight on a sturdy support. The Scarlet Crusade had stripped Koltira to the waist, divested him of all armor and weapons. "Byfrost," he muttered dazedly. "I need…I…"_

 _Thassarian looked at his friend's dimmed eyes with apprehension. How long had he been in this dungeon? How long since he'd sated his desires? "Where is Byfrost?" Koltira needed death and blood to avoid sinking into animalistic wretchedness._

 _The blood elf raised an arm and pointed at a lichen-encrusted wall hung with manacles. "Through there."_

 _Shouts reached Thassarian's ears. No harsh, metallic voices of undeath were these, but the shrill calls of live humans. "Hurry," urged Koltira._

 _He didn't need to be told twice. No time to try and find a way to the room on the other side of the wall. He concentrated, summoning up the energy from runes along Ilfang's length. He thrust out a hand, and a torrent of unholy power broke through the stone with a roar like the Great Sea returning. He wasn't worried about damaging Byfrost. Runeblades were made to absorb and channel tremendous amounts of runic power, a little blackfire and a collapsing building wouldn't so much as scratch the metal. Thassarian released Koltira, who scrambled through the wreckage, wheezing slightly. His skin was rent with dark gashes and blackened patches where he'd been branded. The marks stood out clearly against the elf's pale skin and blue tattoos, and Thassarian burned with rage._

" _Found it."_

" _Good. Come."_

 _A deep, moist voice chuckled. "Where are you going?"_

 _Koltira's lip curled as he straightened, now with a dusty runeblade clenched in one hand. "You."_

 _Thassarian whirled around, Ilfang and Mjormr shrieking free of their sheaths. One of the living stood there dressed in a dark robe emblazoned with the symbol of the Scarlet Crusade. The death knights locked eyes. "I'll shield," Koltira said quietly, barely moving his lips. Thassarian gave a short nod and stepped forward. They both understood each other: Koltira knew this man (and Thassarian had a suspicion how, one that made him viciously eager to sink his blades into the newcomer's soft, living flesh) and knew he was a threat. Mage? Undoubtedly. When faced with such an opponent, the pair often fell to a tried and true method—one would maintain a one-way anti-magic shield with his own power while the other would strike out at the mage from within its protective confines. Koltira should be the one to cut open this Scarlet Crusader, for more reasons than simple satisfaction of hunger, but he seemed too weak to be on offense. They would find the elf some other foe later._

 _Thassarian eyed his opponent. Tall, pale-faced, and light haired, the man would have fit right into the Scourge's ranks were it not for the bloodred symbol splashed across his chest. The mage smiled. "How rude of you to leave," he said softly. "I had not finished entertaining my guest."_

 _If he had been looking to goad Thassarian, he'd succeeded. With a snarl of fury, the death knight launched himself at the man. Unlike one of the living, his anger did not diminish his ability to think clearly. He slashed with one runeblade while throwing out a death coil from the other. The mage sidestepped the sword easily, but the coil sent him staggering. His cool eyes narrowed, and he summoned a wave of fire to wash over the death knight. Thassarian braced for the pain, but it never came. A dim bluish glow suddenly suffused the air between him and the Crusader, deflecting the fire harmlessly. Thassarian spared a quick glance back at Koltira, who crouched near the shattered wall with his hands raised. A determined expression dominated his features, and he flashed Thassarian a wild grin._

 _The death knight blinked. That…that feeling must be the residual heat of the fire. Yes. He focused on the mage, who was now muttering as his hands pulsed with crimson light. If Thassarian wanted to interrupt his spell, he'd need to go outside of Koltira's protective shield. Or…_

 _He pointed Ilfang at the floor near the mage's feet. The room shuddered as cracks rent the stone. The Crusader leapt to safety with little more than a pause in his casting, but the sudden appearance of a ravening ghoul threw him off his stride. The man screamed a curse on all undead and threw his prepared spell at the construction lunging for his face. The ghoul was blasted apart into a putrid collection of bone shards and rotten flesh, but Thassarian only wanted a distraction. Mjormr's runes dimmed as he called their power. A ghostly chain whipped towards the mage and encircled him even as he threw increasingly desperate spells that all bounced off Koltira's shield. The man was yanked off his feet and dragged, struggling and cursing futilely, within reach. Thassarian removed his head in a single savage blow. The cursing stopped, and the struggling calmed to intermittent twitching._

 _Behind him, Koltira rose, lowering his hands to end the shield spell. "Nicely done."_

 _Thassarian acknowledged the compliment with a short nod. "Stand still, my runes haven't faded yet." He threw another death coil, which settled over Koltira. What harmed the living man healed the dead one, and the angry reminders of Koltira's imprisonment faded and vanished. If they had been among others, the elf never would have allowed the expression of relief to cross his features. "Thank you."_

" _Let's go before more come," Thassarian said, sheathing his swords. As Koltira was still weak with hunger, he again put his arm around his protesting comrade. "I'm fine," the blood elf insisted. "The others can't see me like this."_

" _Fuck them," Thassarian said bluntly. "Let's find you something to kill."_

 _Koltira gave a wry smile. "Very well. My armor?"_

" _Leave it. You're due for an upgrade anyways."_

 _The elf exhaled a lungful of stale air. "Then let's be off. I want to land my blade in some damn Crusaders."_

 _It was after they made it back to Acherus, after Koltira had slain a few human soldiers, after he and Thassarian had parted to make their separate reports. The story they gave to their fellows was that Thassarian had happened across Koltira on his own mission and cut him free. The Lich King knew the truth, being able to see into his servants' minds, and both death knights could feel his icy displeasure. Fortunately, their master's will was focused on pressing forward in the elimination of the Scarlet Crusade and the slight went unpunished. It was not, however, without its repercussions._

 _Thassarian was alone, healing his minor injuries in a corner of the Ebon Hold when Koltira appeared. He looked much better, eyes glowing steadily. He was dressed in his usual slim fitting black armor. The one thing missing from his image was his customary smirk._

" _Evening," Thassarian grunted. "Feel better?"_

" _Much," Koltira responded with a slight shrug. Then, "Why did you save me?"_

 _Thassarian thought that was obvious. "We're friends."_

" _There's no such thing among the Scourge." Instead of sounding derisive like Mograine would have, the elf merely sounded puzzled._

 _Thassarian shrugged. "Call it what you like." He rose, slinging Ilfang and Mjormr over his shoulders. "I'm watching you, Deathweaver. We make a good team. I'd hate to lose you."_

 _The elf looked at him strangely for a long time. "Alright," he said at last, then laughed. "Likewise. If you ever died again, I'd have to hunt you down and kill you for it. Bloody nuisance, not worth my time."_

 _A smile came to Thassarian's lips, an expression he was unused to. "I'll hold you to it."_

* * *

 ** _AN - Greetings to you all! Voilá, another chapter. Thanks especially to ZariyaVera and icaw98 for your reviews, please let me know what you thought of the update. And also to Nimtheriel, for help and support (though she did make me work in a reference to Roasted Quail...)_**

 ** _Keep reading, keep writing, keep Warcrafting._**

 ** _\- - Rose_**


	3. The Dead City

"So, let's go over it one more time."

"I hate this plan," Thassarian muttered.

"You've mentioned," Esharae said patiently. "Now, from my scouting—"

He waved a hand. "You found the old Lordaeron sewer entrance, it's relatively unguarded, etc. You go in while invisible—" He didn't bother to hide his skepticism. So far, the elf had yet to demonstrate this talent, claiming she could "only do it when no one was watching".

She snorted. "All rogues worth their salt can do it. I'm no exception."

"So you assassinate the guards around and in the sewer tunnel—"

"—And you come through after I give the all-clear."

"Right, after which you sneak away to cause a near-by distraction to lure the guards away from the tunnel leading to the dungeon block."

"You fight your way through, maybe interrogate a guard or two to find your friend. Make your way back to the exit and get the hell out. We regroup back here."

"Like I said, I hate this plan."

"Not like we have time to dig in through the roof," Esharae pointed out. "On this tight schedule, our best bet is to take on the guards in small, controlled bursts. If they get an alarm out—"

"We're done." Thassarian stared down at Mjormr and Ilfang, but he'd already honed them to the sharpest edge a runeblade could hold. "It won't work," he felt compelled to add.

Esharae threw up her hands. "And I wonder why I don't work with the undead. Pessimists, the lot of you. Just trust me, I've done plenty of rescue ops."

Thassarian said nothing. Optimism had gotten him killed once. Never again.

* * *

 _Don't breathe,_ he told himself. _It'll only give you away._

He didn't know what had happened. He knew only that one moment he was fighting off bloodlust, and the next he felt something cut itself on Byfrost. That simple jolt of pain, that one drop of blood was enough to return some of his waning strength. Even half-starved, he figured he could break down his cell door. Now if only this damnable chain would release him...

He twisted it back and forth relentlessly for the better part of an hour. Patience had never been his strong suit, but it wasn't like there was anything else to do besides dwell broodingly on his dwindling sanity. And he could multitask if needs be.

For the first few minutes, he was throwing all of his strength into it, and he felt that maybe he was getting somewhere. Soon after, the growing ache in his wrist, dulled though it was by undeath, demanded attention. He gripped the chain with his hands, taking the weight off his injured limb, and worked it back and forth until his palms, too, were chafed raw.

Switching back to the wrist, he discovered that the wear hadn't healed a bit since he last left it. He grit his teeth against the pain and continued anyways. _Once I'm out, I can find Byfrost and heal myself with its runes._

Around, and back. Around, and back. He felt the stone and fastenings give ever so slightly.

A sudden burst of extra agony. He'd torn into muscle.

Koltira's face hardened into a feral snarl. He'd never yet let his body get the best of him. He was not about to start now.

Hands again. Around, and back. Around, and back.

An hour more, and the skin of his palms and fingers was worn completely away. He bared his teeth in a silent howl and kept twisting the _Gods-damned chain_ until finally, finally, its metal fastens tore free of the wall with a groan and a snap.

Koltira pressed his bloodied hands against his chest and felt the ichor soak into his shirt. He closed his eyes against the darkness and gathered up the chain, wrapping it around his stinging wrist. He leaned his forehead against the cool stone wall, breathing in short bursts despite what he'd said to himself earlier.

Now came the hard part.

He pushed himself to his feet, then staggered to the door. Rapping his knuckles twice against it, he guessed at its thickness and strength. Grimacing, he retreated several steps, then took a running start and slammed his shoulder against one side of it, figuring the hinges would be the weakest part.

Nothing. Just a bruised shoulder.

Maybe he'd underestimated his door foe. Or maybe it was only a section of wall made to look like a door. He'd never actually seen anyone enter or exit his cell. Sylvanas was always just...there, when he woke or was dragged from the depths of his blood madness.

He examined the door further with his abused fingertips. Steel-plated wood, as he'd suspected, and - ah, that was interesting - it opened inwards, not out. The manufacturers of the portal had made the mistake of putting a handle on this side. Koltira disapproved; you wouldn't see this sort of shoddy workmanship in the Ebon Hold.

He looped the chain around the pull and rewrapped it around his chest and upper arm. At least the setup would spare his wrist and hands. Then threw his weight suddenly against this restraint, and again when it did not yield.

It took several long minutes, but he was rewarded when light abruptly streamed into the cell and he plastered himself against the far wall as the locks gave way. Wincing, he got to his feet and untangled himself from the broken door.

Koltira cautiously peered out into the corridor. He could not see any guards, but that meant nothing. Surely they had heard the crash of the door breaking.

He darted out of his cell and down the hall, to where he could hear Byfrost whispering urgently. This door was unlocked, a relief to Koltira's bruised and battered limbs. The chamber was much like his own, but instead of a chain there was a runeblade propped against one wall. The elf stumbled to his knees next to it, eyes wild as his bloody hands closed around the hilt.

 _At last,_ Byforst hummed. Its energy was so eager, so infectious, that Koltira could barely contain a vicious warcry. He straightened, soul in hand for the first time in weeks, and marched back out into the corridor. He felt a blaze of anticipation at the thought of encountering Sylvanas now.

He began to hear faint sounds up ahead. He slowed his pace, listening intently to the soft footsteps and muted conversation while Byfrost urged him to seek, hunt, kill.

"-told 'er, didn't I?"

"And wot she say?"

"That I was a fool to even try! Imagine, will yeh?"

The voices were gravelly and rasping. Definately Forsaken, Koltira thought. He smiled grimly and waited for the creatures to draw nearer.

"Well, I can't say it were smart, mind. Yer...parts don' work no more. Can't imagine wot you thought you was doin'."

"I jus' wanted to give it a go. Yeh never know till yeh try, eh?"

"Bloody fine deal, innit? We get t' go on livin', but we can't enjoy it properly."

The voices were rounding the corner. Koltira tensed, then leapt out from cover with Byfrost swinging a deadly arc.

The first Forsaken, a shambling mess of bones in a guard's uniform, squealed like a stuck pig as the runeblade slashed through his ribcage. As the eyes dimmed and the body crumpled to the floor, Koltira gasped out loud as the rush of soothing energy raced along Byfrost's length and into him. After so long near starvation, even such a petty meal was pure bliss. He was so lost in ecstasy that he was almost cut in two by the second guard. Quickly recovering his wits, he ducked to one side and the war axe sailed harmlessly past. Byfrost swept upwards, towards an exposed throat, and was blocked.

 _Titans, I'm getting slow,_ the elf realized. He retreated a step back as the axe swished past his torso. He called up the power of Byfrost's runes, now dimly glowing, and shouted. The Forsaken warrior fell to the ground with clotted blood boiling in his veins. A step forward, a quick coup de grace, and Koltira was stronger than ever. He closed his eyes and allowed the surge of power to sweep through him full force.

He crept through the cell block for several minutes before finding a staircase up. His bare feet rang too loudly on the mossy stone as he ascended, causing him to wince inwardly at each step.

Once he had climbed two levels, his surroundings changed noticeably. The rough-hewn stonework hallways of thick, stagnant air became smoother, more spacious corridors with evenly spaced torch brackets. The pale flames shivered in a slight breeze.

Encouraged by this whisper of air, Koltira strode forward, hoping against hope that an exit would be right around the next corner. He took turns almost randomly, as the breath of moving air seemed to come from every direction at once. Before long, he could hear voices-not just a handful, and not just the rasping tones of the undead. Pausing to listen, he distinguished the harsh bark of an orc's laughter, the tumbling-rock thunder of a tauren's deep tones, and a nasally goblin accent.

Koltira dropped into a crouch and peered around the next corner. His eyes widened as they took in the scene.

His corridor opened up onto a wide balcony overlooking a cavern, an immense sprawl of ash-colored buildings, oily Plague dripping from pipes to pool in sluggish rivers, and a tangle of bridges spanning the whole thing. The great cavern was teeming with creatures of all walks, from trolls to the occasional blood elf, although most were Forsaken. They were making such a racket, Koltira first thought they were fighting each other. But no, he realized, something far more dangerous was happening below him: open market. Many of the buildings, now that he looked more closely, had the appearance of stores or taverns, and most of the shouting was merely an orc's way of haggling.

The death knight shrank back into the shadows. He'd need to find another way out, or at least something to cover Byfrost's glowing runes.

He was backing away further into the corridor when someone gave him a shove.

Hardwired death knight instinct caused him to whirl and face his attacker before a second blow could be landed.

"Watch where yer goin', yeah?" mumbled the hunched Undercity guard.

Too late, Koltira realized his mistake. He should have kept his back turned. He should have kept his body between the runeblade and this Forsaken soldier's narrowing eyes.

Then those eyes widened, and Koltira knew he'd been recognized. "Sorry," he lied, and hacked the guard's head from his shoulders before a shout could bring more soldiers. The death knight fled back the way he'd come, hoping to find somewhere more secluded where he could plan his escape route. Another mistake. The guard had not been alone.

Koltira crashed into this one as he raced around a corner. The undead warrior yelped in alarm as they both went sprawling. Before he could untangle himself and silence the guard, Koltira heard her shriek about a breach, an escaped prisoner.

Wild-eyed, he sprang to his feet, slashed Byfrost across the guard's throat, and kept running.

 _Shit, shit, festering reeking shit._

Clattering footsteps hounded him as he flew blindly down corridors, bare feet slipping on patches of lichen and moss. Branching passageways and unopened doors blurred past.

 _Turn and fight,_ Byfrost urged. _Shatter them, bleed them, drink their pain!_

" _Shut up!_ " Koltira roared. It was hard enough to stay on his feet _without_ his runeblade struggling against him.

Around a tight curve. Down a set of spiral steps. Along the next corridor. _DEAD END! ABORT ABORT!_ Door to the left! He didn't bother to see whether or not it was locked, he merely shattered it with power stored in Byfrost's runes. The doorway was narrow, so he threw up a barrier of ice behind him as he fled.

His eyes swept the room frantically. An old storeroom converted into a banquet hall. Other exits, there had to be other exits.

There were none.

He scoured the walls, the floor, even what parts of the ceiling he could reach, as muffled _crack_ s told him his ice barrier was being chipped away. Nothing, Nothing, _nothing!_ No hidden doors, no secret passages, just the dead hopes of a dead elf painted across cold stone.

Koltira sank to the floor, what passed for fear in a death knight pumping his useless lungs. _Think. Think._

But how could he, with the voices outside getting less and less muffled by the second, with the relentless hammer of weaponry against ice ringing in his ears?

It was emotion getting in his way, he realized. That was why he could not think.

He closed his eyes and imagined himself as stone, like Valanar had taught him long ago. _I am already dead,_ he reminded himself. _What more do I have to lose?_

Shoving aside mental images of Thassarian, he stood, Byfrost held lightly in one hand. He walked to the melting ice barrier. He waited.

He killed seven of them before he was subdued.

* * *

"Up," said the harsh voice.

Koltira opened his eyes. His face was pressed against filthy stone, and there wasn't a part of him that didn't hurt. His wrist was the worst, for when they had reshackled him they'd placed the manacle around the arm already chafed and torn raw.

" _Now,_ " insisted the voice, which Koltira decided to hate. Something yanked on his chain, and he had to clamp down hard on the cry of pain attempting to leave him. He stumbled to his feet before the voice's owner- another bloody guard -could become impatient again.

He was given a shove. "Walk."

Koltira considered this, then struck the guard with a closed fist. It put a pleasing dent in the undead soldier's half-rotten face.

 _It was worth it,_ Koltira thought in amusement as he was dragged through the prison block by a corpulent abomination. He doubted that the soldier would have a nose again.

His good humor abandoned him as soon as the door was opened.

"Come in," Sylvanas sang, like a hostess greeting a party guest. The abomination threw Koltira bodily into the cell and slammed the door closed.

The elf pushed himself upright, breath heaving. "No. You can't make me."

Sylvanas only smiled. She pointed a finger at him. "Gentlemen," she called, "help our guest find his seat."

This chamber was larger than Koltira's own cell, with room enough for Sylvanas, her three henchmen-

-and Thassarian, who hung chained and bleeding in a corner, pale hair falling over his face and obscuring his features. He was perfectly still. Ignored. Like a piece of furniture.

Koltira's blood boiled, and he found his voice. "You bitch," he spat at Sylvanas, backing away as the three Forsaken circled him. He dodged an outstretched arm and tried to shove through to Thassarian's side, but undead hands seized him and pulled him back.

"Thass," Koltira called, desperation creeping into his voice. The Forsaken forced him back against the far wall and began to shackle him in place, but Koltira didn't resist. He was too intent on Thassarian's limp, motionless form. Sylvanas wouldn't have killed him. No. She couldn't have. "Thass, can you hear me?"

"He's out, I would imagine." Sylvanas inspected a fingernail in the dim torchlight. "He's much less troublesome this way."

 _I'll bet he is._ Koltira's jaw clenched, and he allowed himself to imagine how hard Thassarian must have fought when they brought him here. His body count was probably higher than Koltira's. A spark of fierce pride for his friend flared in the elf's chest.

The Banshee Queen grinned savagely, baring her fangs. "Of course, our evening's entertainment wouldn't be much fun without him." She snapped her fingers at the guards. One of them shuffled forward, pausing at Thassarian's side for a long, painful moment that felt like a blade being twisted in Koltira's gut.

The guard backhanded Thassarian with enough force to rattle the chains. The death knight groaned softly and began to stir. He raised his head a fraction of an inch, then snarled in fury and tried to lash out at the soldier, who quickly stumbled backwards. Thassarian's furious gaze raked the room, daring anyone to come closer. His eyes slid over Koltira, who felt his heart sink. Red eyes, rust-red. Sylvanas had starved Thassarian to blood madness.

And then Koltira's eyes couldn't leave his face, because those features were so achingly familiar, and yet...not quite right.

A missing scar, the wrong shape of eye…? Koltira did not know what the difference was, but he was certain it was there. Relief made him weak-kneed. This wasn't Thassarian, couldn't be him. This was one of Sylvanas's tricks, an illusion or similar farce.

"Bring me the box," Sylvanas snapped, glancing at Koltira with eyes that seemed to read his doubt.

One of her Forsaken guards offered her a dark wooden cask. The Banshee Queen pulled on a pair of red silk gloves, which was enough to make Koltira shift uneasily. When she pulled out a short silver knife, he could have laughed at the anticlimax. "That's what you're going with? That will be like the sting of a wasp to-"

Quick as an adder, Sylvanas flicked the blade under Koltira's chin and nicked his jaw. The tiny cut seared like fire, like lava worming through his veins. The elf threw back his head and bared his teeth against the scream that _would not be._

Sylvanas gave him a knowing little smile.

 _Sanctified steel,_ Koltira thought bleakly. _Of course she'd have some on hand._ He took a breath to prepare himself for the knife's second kiss, but instead Sylvanas moved to stand by Thassarian. Her smile widened. Wickened.

Something colder than death or frost magic coiled in Koltira's stomach. "Wait," he said quickly, too quickly, tripping over his words in his need to _stop her,_ because how could he be sure? "I'll do whatever it is you want of me."

"That's nice," Sylvanas murmured thoughtfully, tracing the knife's tip down Thassarian's throat. Just the touch of sanctified steel was enough to arch the human's back with pain.

"No! Stop!" Koltira shook like a leaf in a tempest.

"Or what?" There was genuine amusement in Sylvanas's voice. She slid the knife into a nerve cluster beneath one arm and twisted. Thassarian's first scream tore free.

"I'll do anything you ask! I swear it!" Even Koltira could hear the hysterical note creeping into his own words.

Sylvanas shoved the sanctified blade between Thassarian's ribs. As the death knight bellowed in pain, thrashed against his restraints, the banshee turned to face Koltira again. "Alright." She smiled sweetly and pointed over her shoulder to Thassarian. "Kill him."

Koltira only stared at her, mute and despairing.

"You see," she said lightly, returning to her original task, "oaths are worthless. I don't want yours." The knife slithered over her victim, parting flesh and eliciting more screams. "I don't want to blackmail you into obeying me. I want you to serve _willingly._ "

" _So stop torturing my friend!_ " Koltira cried out. He wanted to curl into a ball on the floor and weep like a mortal. He wanted to tear the chains from the wall and strangle Sylvanas. He wanted to die the second death, right here and now.

Sylvanas paused again to look at Koltira. "Would you take his place?" She sounded curious, nothing more.

To Koltira, this had never been in question. "Yes," he said immediately. "I'll take the knife, the blood madness, the fucking Scarlet Crusaders if you've got any. Just stop..." His voice threatened to waver on the last word.

Sylvanas laughed and clapped her hands. "Ladies and gentlemen, I give you true love!" Then, with a look of mock horror, she clapped her hands over her mouth. "But is his love _returned?_ We will find out!" She nodded at Thassarian, who now sagged in his chains, bleeding ichor. "Get him down."

Her order was quickly carried out by her scurrying henchmen. They moved like roaches, Koltira decided, watching them with disgust. Three more crawling insects in the filth of the Undercity.

When they unchained Thassarian, he stood unsteadily, swaying back and forth. Koltira caught himself breathing again as he waited for the other death knight to lash out at his captors, smash them to rot and ash in order to satisfy his hunger, but the moment didn't come. He just stood there, ignoring four potential targets.

And Sylvanas placed the knife in his hand.

And he was moving forward, towards Koltira.

"Thassarian," Koltira said, gaze flicking from the sanctified blade to the rust-red eyes of the one who held it, "what are you doing?"

The knife rose, and Thassarian's face was impassive. Unreadable. Unyielding.

"Thass, stop! Why-"

Koltira yanked hard at his bonds, scream welling up from within as every nerve in his body seared with holy fire. The knife blade passed through skin and muscle, scraping bone. Thassarian dragged it downwards, leaving a gaping wound. Through the pain, Koltira could see his face, his horribly familiar face, twisted with hunger and need and ( _please no_ ) pleasure.

"He sees only you," Sylvanas explained. Her voice came as if from a great distance. "And he's starving, poor thing."

Sun fire, dragon's blood, agonizing burning. Thassarian smiling.

 _It's an illusion, she's playing with you!_

" _Why does he do this, Koltira? Because he is hungry?_ " Sylvanas's voice, yes she was the one doing this, not Thassarian not Thass never...

Agony like molten metal beneath his skin. Not felt since the Scarlet Crusade...

 _Yes, the Crusade, and Thassarian saved you! This is a godsdamned illusion!_

" _Do you love him? Would you do this to him, Koltira?_ "

Burning white. Phoenix death. Throat raw. Legs scrabbling pitifully against the floor, trying to get away. The world was pain and searing fire. The voice was the only other thing that existed.

 _Why is he doing this?_ Her voice? His voice? Is it not all the same?

 _How could he love you? You are nothing to him. A toy when he desires, and a meal when he needs it._

 _an illusion..._

White-hot iron thrust against his skin. Blacker now. Black fire. Balefire.

 _Why would you love him?_

 _illusion..._

 _He does not love you._

 _illusion..._

 _You don't even have a reason._

Staked and burned alive. Ashes falling in his eyes. Dark sky above...

 _He enjoys causing you agony._

 _..._

 _You hate him, don't you Koltira?_

 _..._

Blackness.

* * *

There was no point in waiting for nightfall. The Forsaken didn't need sleep, and could see just fine in the dark. Thassarian still felt exposed, crouching on a hilltop bathed in reddish light from sunset, and it unsettled him more than he would ever admit.

"Go," he told Esharae.

The night elf gave a short nod and slithered out of sight. Thassarian waited for her to appear again by the entrance to the sewers, but she remained nowhere in evidence. The death knight shifted uneasily. Still Esharae did not come into view. Surely she wouldn't have abandoned him…

Before he knew it, he was halfway down the hill. Damn elves. You just couldn't trust them.

A hand clamped over his mouth, muffling his shout of surprise. An arm threw itself across his path. "What the hell," Esharae hissed, "are you thinking?" She released him, and Thassarian immediately turned to face her.

Except she wasn't there.

"Did you completely forget the plan?" demanded the empty air in front of the death knight.

So she really could turn invisible. Shaking his head and feeling foolish, Thassarian returned to the hill. Now that he was watching for it, he could see the slight impressions the elf's feet made on the grass. Soon, the grate over the sewer tunnel moved of its own accord, then reestablished its original position. The death knight sat back. And now he waited.

By the time the sun was nothing more than a bloody smear on the horizon, he began to worry. Surely it shouldn't take this long...

If Esharae had gotten herself captured or killed, he was on his own against the armies of the Forsaken. Unease knotted his insides. Minutes crawled by like ants scuttling over his skin. And finally, with the images of Koltira after the tortures of the Scarlet Crusade foremost in his mind, he could wait no longer.

He stood, shook out his muscles, and strode down the hill. Ilfang and Mjormr were loose in their sheaths, whispering excitedly in anticipation of the evening's activities. A cold, hard pleasure grew inside Thassarian. At last, the wait was over. At last, the plans had been made (and subsequently tossed to the winds). It was time for action, time for him to fight his way to Koltira's side and rescue his friend.

Past the grate, the dim, dank expanse of the sewer tunnel twisted away into darkness. The floor was sloping and coated in slick green ooze, lichen and slime mingling together. Thassarian was careful with his footing. The smell was enough to make one retch, leaving the death knight fervently glad he had no need for breathing. Damp stone walls twisted deeper into the earth, darkening with each step. Just when he began to fear that his sight would fail, greenish light became faintly visible. Presently the tunnel leveled out, widened, and deposited the death knight in a more regular (and less unspeakably filthy) corridor. Fitfully burning torches were mounted on the walls at regular intervals. Thassarian paused as he took in the scene before him.

The first corpse lay on the floor. From its slime-covered state, he guessed it had slid down from farther up the sewer tunnel. Its partially decomposed grey flesh was stretched over bones that were sometimes visible through gaps in its ravaged skin. The armor it wore was plain leather, and a scimitar lay a couple feet away. On further inspection, Thassarian saw the undead warrior's second life had ended with a deftly inserted knife between vertebrae. He eyed the expert stroke, impressed. The elf did good work, he admitted.

A pair of mail-plated guards lay in a similar state not too far away. Passing them, Thassarian's ears picked up faint noises ahead. He unsheathed his swords and hurried on ahead, past more of Esharae's handiwork.

A grunt of pain echoed around a corner. Thassarian charged forward, preparing for the worst. He'd blasted the first Forsaken to dust and slime before he realized what he was facing. At least a dozen heavily armed and armored warriors were waiting for him, two holding Esharae between them.

Thassarian turned to run. His escape was cut off by the arrival of two patchwork abominations, lopsided faces grinning stupidly.

 _Blackened damn,_ the death knight cursed silently as he was pressed back. _Like they knew—_ His gaze swept to Esharae, who, apart from bearing some new bruises and cuts, looked mostly unfazed. — _Like they knew we were coming._

"You bloody traitor," he snarled as rough hands seized him, tearing his runeblades from his grip. "You damned sellout! Pray to—"

A hard, mailed fist collided with his stomach, cutting his threat short. "Silence," rasped one of the skeletal warriors.

Esharae met Thassarian's eyes evenly. "Calm down," she told him. "We're still in this together."

"Like hell we are!" he shouted.

"It's just a slight change of plans," the elf insisted as their captors bound their hands. "Trust me."

"Silence!" growled the Forsaken again.

Thassarian bit back a furious retort, knowing he needed to reserve his strength. Trust her, his undead ass. She'd betrayed him, left Koltira to rot. He couldn't use his magic without Ilfang and Mjormr's runes, but if he had his swords he would strike the elf dead here and now.

"What do we do with them?" one of the Forsaken asked in a gravelly voice. "The Lady'll want to see the elf, but this one's undead."

"He's not one of ours," the silencer said thoughtfully. "He's Ebon Blade. The Lady said to be on the lookout for one of their kind."

"No snack?" one of the abominations put in with a concerned gurgle. He waved his third arm, equipped with a rusty meathook. "Grubgut hungry."

"Grubgut's always hungry," snapped the silencer, apparently the leader. "They go to the Lady."

Thassarian's insides clenched. _Sylvanas._

"Well? Get a move on!" A spear prodded Thassarian in the small of the back. He started to walk, thinking hard. He needed to break free and find the dungeon block. That was his chief goal at this point; revenge could come later. So before he was brought before the Banshee Queen—

Hmm.

It all boiled down to one question: Would Sylvanas kill him immediately, or would she try to extract the reason for this Undercity invasion? The Forsaken captain had mentioned something about expecting a member of the Ebon Blade—because Esharae had told them? Because of something to do with Koltira?

Driven further into the twisting, branching passages of the Undercity, Thassarian soon had to admit to himself that he was lost. Even if he did manage to break free, he would be recaptured before he found his way out, let alone found the dungeons. His best bet was to be brought before Sylvanas. Hopefully, she would condemn him to a cell and he would be taken directly there.

"Don't worry, I planned this." Esharae had somehow slipped next to him and was whispering in his ear.

With his hands bound behind his back, Thassarian couldn't lash out at her. He spat instead.

She shrugged it off. "We'll still rescue your friend. This is a little detour."

"Shut up back there!" snarled the captain, noticing at last. "No talking."

Esharae fell silent, leaving Thassarian to digest her words.

They were brought through a set of doors and found themselves in a gently sloping corridor adorned with a once-fine runner down the center. Down they went, deeper beneath the ruined capital of Lordaeron. At last, they were stopped within a vast circular chamber. A raised dais dominated the center, drawing the eye like a lodestone to the bleakly simple black throne. Several figures milled about the room, talking in hushed voices—undead guards, spectral ghosts, and a pair of blood elf ambassadors. The Dark Lady was nowhere in evidence.

"Clear out," barked the Forsaken captain. "We've an audience with the Queen, and she'll want to keep things confidential."

With a backdrop of snide mutterings, most of the ghosts and guards trooped (or glided) out of the audience chamber. The two blood elves remained, gazing down at the Forsaken and their captives with maddeningly superior expressions. "We've important matters to discuss with Her Ladyship," one said haughtily.

Thassarian looked them over. They both were slender and long-haired, wearing resplendent robes of red and gold. Both were clean-shaven (unlike Koltira with his stupid, annoyingly attractive goatee), so the death knight was unable to tell their genders.

The Forsaken captain sneered. "Better not let the Queen see you defying an order from her general. If you're here to beg more troops, and I'm sure you are, you'd do better to show respect to those in power around the Glades." General, then. Well, well.

The blood elf who'd spoken stiffened angrily. "We—"

"Antonidas, enough," his fellow cut in sharply. "If it pleases the Dark Lady, it pleases us. We'll come back tomorrow." He stepped down from the dais and crossed the room to an open door, where he paused. Antonidas threw one last devastating glare down at the general before following suit.

As the door slammed shut, the general pointed a clawed finger at one of his warriors. "You. Go inform the Dark Lady we have prisoners of a…an interesting nature."

The undead man nodded smartly and dashed out of the room through a door at the far end.

"As for you," the general said, turning back to Thassarian and Esharae, "just sit tight unt— _Agh!_ "

He crashed indelicately to the floor, a glowing dagger in his back. Esharae, now standing unbound behind him, plucked it free. She winked at Thassarian.

There was a split second of abject silence before the dozen remaining Forsaken guards threw themselves at her with a roar. Thassarian jerked free of the mass and retreated several steps, listening for his swords, bewildered by the sudden turn of events. He expected the horde of ravening dead to disperse in a few seconds, to reveal the bloodied corpse of a night elf sprawled on the floor, but it didn't happen. A few of the warriors fell, cut to pieces by whirling knives. "Here, death knight!" shouted Esharae, and Ilfang came spinning out of the carnage. All it took was a finger laid on its hilt, and a burst of rot tore through Thassarian's bonds. He scooped up the runeblade and threw himself into the fight.

With their leader dead and chaos reigning, the Forsaken were rattled and disorganized. Thassarian cut down several of them from behind before they even realized he was a threat. Several more succumbed to the raw force of his unholy magic, shivered off in torrents from his glowing form. In the past few minutes, he'd been lied to, betrayed, stripped of hope, and forced on a parade through Sylvanas's twisted kingdom. His rage and the clotted black blood he drew set Ilfang's runes blazing. Nothing could stand before him for long.

Esharae was a whirlwind. Anything that came within range of her knives was slashed to ribbons. Smaller throwing knives seemed to appear at will in her hands, then were directed into the hearts of onrushing foes. No attack could slip past her wildness.

With the two of them working together, the Forsaken soon fell before them. Thassarian sent a lazy lance of frost after the few that fled, killing them. He turned to Esharae.

The elf's glowing eyes widened as she felt Ilfang's cold blade against her throat. "Now wait a minute," she rushed, "let me explain."

"Then explain," Thassarian growled, "and do it fast. Sylvanas could be here in seconds, if she hasn't heard the fight and sent an entire battalion after us."

"This is my favor."

It caught him off guard. "You wanted to be captured and brought before the fucking Banshee Queen? I'll save you the trouble and remove your head painlessly."

"I'm going to kill her," Esharae said calmly, as if it were a perfectly reasonable thing to do, "and you're going to help me."

Thassarian lowered his sword. She was clearly mad. He should put her out of her misery right now.

"You owe me a favor," she pressed.

He gave a short, humorless laugh. "Once we rescued Koltira. We're both about to die, and after what you put me through there's no way in hell I'm helping you now." He turned to leave the room. Perhaps he could still find his way to Koltira, perhaps it wasn't too late…

There was quiet for a moment, then: "You'll never find your way through the Undercity without me."

Thassarian turned back. "What?"

"I know this city," Esharae said. "I've been scouting it for years. I know where your friend will be kept. I know how to get there and how to get out again." She stepped among the dead and extracted Mjormr from a stiff hand. She held it out, eyes burning. "Sylvanas needs to die. She's a monster, a twisted, evil shade of the elf she once was. But it's more than that." Esharae took a breath. "My mother was an ambassador. Our family was in Silvermoon City when Arthas's forces attacked. We survived the initial onslaught, hiding in the countryside, but once the rangers fell, we were found. Sylvanas Windrunner had already been turned into a banshee by Arthas. I watched as she killed my whole family. I escaped, but barely. Later I learned my sister had become a death knight. She committed suicide once freed from the Lich King's control. So I became an adventurer. I threw everything I had into the Northern expedition, and it was worth it. I helped kill Arthas, once and for all. But it isn't enough. I want Sylvanas Windrunner dead at my feet." Her eyes were blazing with an intensity Thassarian had never seen from her. "Who else but one bent on justice would have answered your call? Did you really think we adventurers are so _charitable?_ "

"Esharae," he tried, keeping a calm voice, "vengeance won't bring your family back. We can still make it out of here. Come with me. Show me the way to the dungeons, and then we can escape."

"You don't understand," the elf growled, looking positively deranged. "I've spent years wandering this city, invisible. Awaiting my chance, measuring my odds. I knew I couldn't do it alone; I needed another fighter on my side. And then you showed up… It's perfect, you see. You help me kill Sylvanas. I take you to your friend. We all make it out alive and go our separate ways." She raised Mjormr again, and this time Thassarian saw she was offering it to him. "You'll never find your way out on your own."

She was being truthful. She might be crazy, but she wasn't lying, he could see it in her eyes, hear it in her voice. Thassarian hesitated. If she truly knew her way around the Undercity, he couldn't leave her behind. Then again, if they went up against Sylvanas in her own kingdom, they would die. It wasn't even a question.

What would Koltira want?

 _He'd want me to have never come in the first place,_ he thought grimly. _If he was here now, he'd tell me what an idiot I've been. Colorfully. In two languages. But he'd still take up Byfrost and die at my side if that's what I asked of him._

Before he could snap out of his hesitation, the far door clanked and swung open.

"How lovely!" purred a high, clear voice. "I'll be throwing a party after all!"

Sylvanas stepped into the light. She was tall and lean, her ethereal beauty perfectly preserved in death. Crimson eyes watched in amusement beneath heavy lids and upswept brows. Full lips pulled back to show iridescent fangs, bared in a savage grin. Her skin was pale grey, her clothing red and black armor that left her midriff bare. A quiver of ebony arrows was slung carelessly over a scarlet cloak, and a monstrous bow rested strung in one long-fingered hand.

Esharae glared defiantly back, then sent a swift glance Thassarian's way. "Time's up, death knight. Leave or stay, I'm fighting." She threw Mjormr as she had Ilfang, and Thassarian caught it. He was weary to the bone. Take on Sylvanas? Why the hell not. She'd undoubtedly surrounded the audience chamber with more troops, and he wouldn't get so lucky without the element of surprise.

 _Dammit, Koltira, I'm sorry._

He raised his runeblades and charged the Banshee Queen.

Not the smartest decision of his life or undeath.

"May my aim be true," whispered Sylvanas in a voice both melodic and cold as a Northrend glacier. An arrow leapt from her bowstring and burrowed into Thassarian's heart. He bellowed in pain but kept coming, sensing Esharae right behind, eager to draw blood. An arrow was sent her way, but the elf dodged with incredible speed. As the pair mounted the dais, Sylvanas flipped backwards off of it, loosing another shot before landing. She laughed as it impaled Esharae's shoulder. "Dear elf, why do you fight? Do you think I never noticed your little soirees into my city? Do you think I am not prepared to deal with outsiders?"

The elf snarled in rage and struggled forward, knives gleaming.

Thassarian threw a death coil fueled by a sudden hatred that washed through him, which didn't seem to faze the banshee. Another two arrows sprouted in Esharae's stomach. The elf dropped to her knees with a cry of pain.

 _We can't get close enough,_ Thassarian realized in dismay. Sylvanas moved much faster than either of them and had superior ranged firepower. _No, not after we came so far..._ Esharae was down, probably dying, and the death knight couldn't hope to match the Banshee Queen's monster bow.

Desperation made him stronger, faster. He lunged forward, summoning his ghoul behind Sylvanas with the last few shreds of Mjormr's power. He thrust Ilfang forward, grazing the banshee's armored shoulder. She only smiled as she shot him, point-blank, in the throat.

On his knees. Pain shrouding his vision. He'd failed. He'd failed Koltira. And that pain was worse.

 _It can't end like this..._

He forced himself to raise his head. He could barely see, but from the sounds, his enemy was engaged with his summoned ghoul. He had to strike now, while her back was turned. He had to force his leaden limbs to obey him just one more time before the darkness came. He had to stand...

Somehow, he regained his feet. Somehow, he drew back one arm, Ilfang poised and gleaming.

Sylvanas shrieked as the runeblade sliced through her stiff flesh. She whirled, striking Thassarian in the side of the head with all her unnatural strength, using her bow as a club. The death knight's vision flared with bright color.

He was sprawled across the filthy floor, tasting the black ichor that served him as blood. His thoughts were as hazy as his cotton-stuffed ears, but one thought made it through the thick cloud.

 _Failed. I've failed._

The floor beneath him vibrated with many hurrying footsteps. Skeletal guards rushed in through the doors, ringing the room like spectators in an arena. Sylvanas crouched before Thassarian, a smug expression riding her pretty face. Even as close to true death as he was, Thassarian felt a surge of hatred.

"Poor thing," Sylvanas simpered. "A quest to rescue your true love, thwarted! My romantic heart weeps."

"Where-is he?" Thassarian managed, pushing his mangled voice past the arrow in his throat.

"All in good time," Sylvanas cooed in a sing-song voice. Her red eyes glowed.

* * *

 _ **This chapter was a beast to write. Seriously, halfway through it sprouted scaly wings and flew up onto the mantlepiece. When I tried to get it down it started breathing fire.**_

 _ **Bah.**_

 _ **Anyways, here you have it. New chapter. It got pretty long, so I could not include all of the remaining material in it. So you get a fourth chapter at some point! Yay!**_


	4. Daybreak

**_AN - *approaches podium, clears throat and begins to read* Thank you all for reading and staying with me to the end. I know the gap between the third and last chapter was daunting, but- *looks up* *is talking to a room full of mummified bodies strung with cobwebs* ...Wow, so it's really been that long, huh? Jeez. Well, sorry about that! *waves timidly* I'm back now! You can all have closure. *realizes all corpses have identical glares fixed towards the podium* Sorry! The editing was, uh... Look, just don't kill me, okay? *throws script into the audience and runs away*_**

* * *

To be honest, he was a little surprised that he'd been given a cell and not a grave. _Not that it makes much difference,_ he thought resentfully. One or the other, it was all the same to Koltira, wherever he was. Thassarian had failed him. He shouldn't have allowed himself to fall, he should have fought till the magics holding him together faltered and he became one more corpse in the hell of the Undercity. Koltira had no one else.

Sylvanas's men had dragged him and the half-dead Esharae to the dungeons, where they were thrown into separate cells. Thassarian had paced the room for so long, searching for a way out, a weapon he could use, but finally realized it was useless. Apart from the door, the room was a featureless stone cube, cramped and slightly damp from the slimy combination of filth and lichen that seemed to be everywhere in this damned city.

He spared a moment of concern for Esharae, no doubt dying in agony somewhere nearby, but the elf was, after all, the reason for their current predicament. It was to Koltira his thoughts kept returning. He was close, Thassarian just knew it…and yet he'd never been farther from his friend's rescue.

Thassarian slumped dejectedly to the floor, cursing Varian Wrynn for not taking things seriously, cursing Esharae for being so stupid as to think she could take on Sylvanas, cursing Sylvanas herself for being such a sadistic, meddling witch…and cursing himself most of all for doing too little, too late. He should have trusted his instincts instead of that damn night elf. He should have turned and ran when Esharae made her intentions clear. He should have… He should have…

Shortly, he fell asleep, wracked with guilt and the dull pain of his injuries. His dreams were dark, full of missions failed, punishments taken, and the lonely, echoing ache that had been with him ever since Koltira had been abducted in Andorhal. The worst dreams, though, were the ones where he envisioned himself and Koltita together, the things they would have said to each other had they known it would come to this. He always woke in the middle, realizing it had been a dream, that he would never be able to say those things or see the elf's infuriatingly arrogant smirk again or hear his voice. A wave of hopelessness would accompany these realizations, and would remain until he fell once more into an uneasy sleep.

The last time he woke was when the door to his cell opened.

It was a wonder the motion roused him at all, for it was gentle, soundless, and didn't so much as nudge his sleeping figure. It must have been the draft, or the sense of a nearby being. Thassarian's eyes snapped open, illuminating the scene with a dim light.

"Hey," Esharae whispered. "Ready to go?"

He lunged to his feet. The elf, thinking he was attacking her, scrambled back. Thassarian ducked outside the door and looked swiftly around. He could see no one but his rescuer and a dead guard a few feet away. "How did you—"

"Long story," Esharae said, shoving the guard's body into Thassarian's cell and easing the door shut. "I'll tell you as we walk. There's another sewer tunnel, one that's actually used for waste transport, near here. We'll just have to get through a couple guards to get to it, and a few more if we want to retrieve our gear."

Thassarian stopped walking. "What about Koltira?"

Esharae turned to face him. She looked pale but determined, somehow none the worse for wear from the high-velocity arrows she received through her abdomen earlier. "Listen," she hissed, "we're going to be lucky enough getting out of here on our own, we can't risk stopping to open every door to find your friend. We'll come back another—"

Thassarian slammed her against the wall. "We had a deal," he said in a low, even voice. "I helped you fight Sylvanas. You help me free Koltira. There won't be another time."

Esharae stared at him, wide-eyed. She searched his face, then slowly, slowly nodded. Thassarian released her. "I need my armor," he said in a more conversational tone, though he still kept his voice down. "And my runeblades are my soul. I cannot live without them."

"Very well. I'd hate to lose my drinking hat." Esharae paused at an intersection of corridors before picking a direction. "We'll get our stuff first, then see about finding your friend."

As they went on their way, Thassarian asked how the elf had come to be in possession of a keyring, a knife, and a distinctly un-perforated stomach. Esharae laughed quietly. "I had a healing potion and a small dagger hidden on my person. This isn't exactly my first escape from jail and I like to be prepared. Anyways, my cell door had bars on it, and I could see the guard outside. So I stealthed, backstabbed him, and—"

"But how did you get out in the first place?"

"If I'm invisible, I can stab whatever I see. I appear behind my target."

"Teleportation?"

"You could call it that. It's a trick I learned from a very good teacher in a very remote location, although plenty of other rogues know it. It's useless without a knife in hand, but like I said, I had one tucked away. Anyways, since there had been a guard outside my door, I figured there would be one outside yours, too. I found her, killed her, and located the right key. Easy."

Thassarian was duly impressed. "Thanks," he said grudgingly. "I suppose I don't have to wring your lifeblood out your pointy ears afterall."

"I feel like a treasured and appreciated friend," Esharae sniffed. "This way."

The death knight could tell they were moving in the right direction because he was soon faintly aware of Ilfang and Mjormr's voices. Soon, Esharae flung out an arm to stop him. "We're near the guardhouse," she whispered. "That's where our things will be. Stay here while I take care of the guards."

Thassarian nodded once in agreement and turned away so the elf could stealth. He waited patiently for a few moments, listening to the sounds that bounced around the corner. A choked gurgle, a shout, some rapid _thunks_ that only an experienced ear would recognize as a blade slicing through stiff, unliving flesh.

Esharae poked her head around the corner, smiling. "All good," she announced.

Thassarian strode immediately to his runeblades. He'd felt so...naked without them. He stroked their sheaths, calmed their frantic whispering, and slung them into their customary positions at his back. His armor was a little more of a challenge, as he didn't have a psychic connection leading him onwards. He eventually located it on a high shelf and suited up. "Ready," he announced. Esharae grinned, dark leather back in place, blue cloak around her shoulders, and scarlet hat perched at a jaunty angle between her long ears. "Good," she said. "Let's kick ass."

First, Thassarian scanned the weapon racks for any sign of Byfrost. He didn't see the sword anywhere. Unsure of whether this was a good omen or bad, he followed Esharae back into the winding maze of the prison block.

"So," the elf said, glancing up and down the long lines of cell doors, "now would be a good time to mention any mental link you guys have."

"I've a better idea." Thassarian crept down the passageway that led more or less away from the dungeons, Esharae following reluctantly. It wasn't long before he found what he was looking for.

A hunched guard in tattered Tirisfal Glades colors stomped down the corridor with a torch held aloft. This was fortunate for the intruders, as the torch suppressed his night vision. Thassarian slipped into the shadows of a branching passage and waited until the guard walked past. The death knight lunged from his hiding place, slamming the guard against the wall and pressing Mjormr to his throat. "If you call out," the death knight warned, "You'll die the second death before you finish the first syllable."

The guard's eyes were wide. He'd dropped his torch and ceased fumbling for his weapon. "What do you want?" he croaked.

"There's a blood elf death knight in one of these cells," Thassarian informed him. "I need to know which one."

If possible, the guard's eyes got even bigger. He shook his head vigorously. "You don't want to go near that one," he whispered fearfully. "Even the Dark Lady is careful when she- Darkness, she's going to have me executed."

"I'm sure it would be a much kinder fate than anything we could do to you," Thassarian said pleasantly. "Esharae, do you still have that healing potion?"

Of course, the elf had already drunk it, but she still had the vial. She brought it out with a smirk. "Open up. Tell me, is it true that these things melt undead from the inside out? I've always wanted to give it a shot. Scientific research, you know."

"Alright!" yelped the guard, plainly terrified. "The elf is in the high security wing. Keep taking rights until you reach the stairs, then down a level and third door on your left. But you'll never make it out alive-"

"We'll be the judge of that," Thassarian said coldly, and put sudden weight on Mjormr.

Esharae tucked the potion vial away again. "You didn't have to do that," she commented, watching the head roll away.

Thassarian shrugged and wiped gore from the runeblade's length. "He would have raised the alarm. Come on, we need to go."

He took off without waiting to see if Esharae was following. His swords whispered excitedly and his blood sang. They could still do this, they could still make it. He would see Koltira again in a few short minutes.

They followed the guard's instructions and fought their way past the security portion of the high security wing. Thassarian's blades were a blur as he cut down every undead in his path, every Forsaken standing between him and once he stood before the third door on the left did he begin to doubt. The guard could have been lying. This could be a trap.

On the other hand, Koltira could be on the other side of that door.

"Here, I'll get it." Esharae pushed past him and began to fiddle with the keyring in the lock. "I just need to find the right one… Blasted things…"

If Thassarian had been living, he would have held his breath. As it was, he stared intently at the elf until finally, finally the door swung open. Esharae stepped inside. "It's dark in here. I don't see y-"

The rest of her sentence was cut off in a scream.

Thassarian lunged forward, runeblades drawn, prepared for a new threat. He shoved the door wide open, allowing dim light to stretch into the cell where a nightmare worthy of Icecrown awaited. Esharae had been tackled by something, a vaguely humanoid beast dressed in rags. It tore at her in a frenzy of teeth and claws, gouging bright lines of blood along her skin. They rolled across the floor in a flurry of limbs and blood, Esharae still screaming, trying to throw the beast off, trying to draw her knives. Thassarian couldn't get an accurate shot at the thing without impaling the elf too, and any magic would have a similar effect. The beast, meanwhile, howled savagely and sunk its teeth into the elf's throat. It worried her back and forth, and Thassarian added his own voice and blows to the clamor, trying to knock the thing aside without killing its prey, trying to save-

And the screaming stopped.

The beast retreated into a corner, blood covering its front. Thassarian could only stare and the torn, crimson-stained shape of Esharae's corpse. The elf had been his guide, his only way out of this place… And like an idiot, he'd allowed her to walk into a trap. His mouth made a hard, thin line. He raised Ilfang, intending to put the beast down before it decided it would like a tasty death knight, too. He froze.

 _By the Light…_

It didn't make sense. Actually, it made horrible, perverted, perfect sense, and that's why he had such a hard time coming to grips with the facts. Ilfang shook and finally fell from his hand. This could not be, his mind simply rejected the images his eyes were sending.

The thing that used to be Koltira Deathweaver curled into a ball and emitted a low moan. Thassarian now saw the restraining chain and felt safe in taking a small step forward.

"Koltira?"

Koltira snarled at him.

Blood-mad. Completely, utterly blood-mad. So deep into the hunger that Thassarian worried he might never wake from it. He glanced nervously back out of the cell. So far, no one had come, but surely there was a guard or two who'd heard Esharae's screams.

"Koltira, it's Thassarian. I can get you out of here, but you have to focus. You have to find yourself again."

The blood elf made no response.

He tried again. "Remember. You know me, we were in the Ebon Blade together. We fought together." He reached a hand towards the elf's shoulder, then snatched it back before he lost his fingers. Suddenly Koltira was lunging for him, eyes dimmed and rust colored, face twisted in unbearable hunger and need. Thassarian stumbled back until the elf's chain ran out, keeping its growling, twitching prisoner at bay.

Despair set in.

 _This can't go on._

An idea took root. In order to maximize the pain of starvation, Sylvanas would have placed Byfrost nearby. Not in the same cell, but perhaps an adjacent one… With a certain amount of pity and disgust, Thassarian managed to extract the keyring from Esharae's corpse. Leaving the chained, snapping beast behind, he unlocked the cells on either side of the occupied one. The righthand cell was empty. The lefthand one contained a runeblade.

Byfrost was propped unceremoniously against one wall, runes completely extinguished. As Thassarian's hand closed over the hilt, he shuddered at the aura of ravenous hunger surrounding the blade. He returned with it to Koltira's cell and sat down just out of reach. Killing Esharae would have helped some with the elf's hunger, but he needed more. And Thassarian did not have time to find some undead to slaughter. He stared his friend in the eyes and slashed Byfrost across his own arm.

He barely contained a howl of pain. Runeblades were designed to bite at both body and soul. As such, they hurt undead just as much as a normal blade would hurt one of the living. Black ichor oozed sluggishly from the wound. "Remember, Koltira," Thassarian growled. "We fought the Scarlet Crusade together, back when we were merely servants."

Another cut, this time slower and lingering, below the first. The more pain, the better it would serve to awaken Koltira. "The day we threw off the Lich King's control, we decided to go our separate ways. Dammit, that was a mistake. The Alliance has never cared about me, and look what the Horde has done to you. We'd be better off factionless." He grunted as he stabbed Byfrost through the thick muscle of his leg. He thought he saw something that time, a flicker in Koltira's eyes. "I rescued you from the dungeons of the Crusade. We fought your torturer and made it back to Acherus." _Remember, damn you._

Cut after cut he made in his own flesh, reminding Koltira of both his life and undeath. Bit by bit, the elf calmed and seemed to sink into a sort of stupor, staring blankly at Thassarian.

His vision was swimming with black. His whole body hurt with a pain he hadn't felt since life, and he didn't know how much longer he could keep this up before his animation spells failed. Whenever his strength began to falter, he forced himself to look at Koltira's wretched form. It was all the incentive he needed to keep torturing himself.

He held the sword out for another cut. Readjusted his grip. There was no place on his body not already weeping ichor. Koltira just watched, listless. _He needs a jolt,_ Thassarian realized. _Something to snap him out of it._

"Koltira. Remember when I killed you. I shoved Ilfang between your ribs and watched your lifeblood drain away. I made you what you are." He took a useless breath, watching dim recognition appear in Koltira's expression. Now was the time. Thassarian plunged Byfrost into his own unbeating heart.

* * *

Koltira felt as though someone had dropped him into the frozen sea. He was numb, completely unable to move or think, until at last he seemed to break the surface.

And saw Thassarian dead on the floor with Byfrost sheathed in his chest.

A scream of rage and horror tore free of him. He threw himself towards his friend, only to find himself brought up short by the damnable chain. The elf howled and twisted fruitlessly in its grasp before slumping to the floor once more. His insides writhed. She had done it. She had forced him to kill Thassarian. And not only that, he realized with despair, seeing the countless cuts crisscrossing the body, he had drawn it out. Toyed with him. Drank in his friend's suffering.

It took several seconds of utter desolation to realize he wasn't thinking clearly because he was still half-delirious with hunger. He, Koltira, was on a chain. Thassarian was free to move. If he had indeed come for Koltira and been savagely attacked, he would have instinctively retreated out of range. Finally, Koltira's memories trickled back.

 _Gods old and new, that's even worse._ He remembered now, remembered sitting and watching Thassarian slice his own flesh open, remembered the pain on his face that he'd tried to hide, remembered all the things he'd said while doing so. The most horrific thing about the experience? Koltira remembered the pleasure. He'd felt relief every time his friend had sawed open his own body.

For a moment, he wished he was living so he could throw up.

 _Get yourself under control, Deathweaver,_ he told himself after a few seconds of this. _Just because he has a sword in his ribcage doesn't mean he's died the second death. First, try the obvious._ He stretched out his unbound hand as far as he could and managed to brush Thassarian's boot. Not good enough. He heaved all of his weight against the chain, crying out as muscles and bones stretched far further than they were ever intended to. Black spots danced across his vision.

His hand gripped Thassarian's ankle. Gasping with the effort, he pulled his friend's body closer, inch by inch, until he could touch the runeblade.

The sigils along Byfrost's length were glowing from the blood Thassarian had spilled across it. The power was sweet, blessed relief to one who had been helpless for so long. Koltira shattered the chain without a second thought, then dragged himself to Thassarian's side. There was that strong jaw, bristled with a day-old beard, that he knew so well, there was that proud nose and heavy brow. The long, pale hair was soaked in dark ichor. Koltira's eyes lingered for only seconds on the familiar features to determine that no, this was not an illusion. He grit his teeth and pulled Byfrost free.

 _A worthy feast,_ the blade hummed.

 _Shut up,_ Koltira thought with a swell of anger. _That's my friend you were cutting up._

 _The elf was delicious as well._

 _Elf?_ He turned. He turned away very quickly. _Never mind, do we have enough power?_

 _Always,_ promised the runeblade.

Koltira sucked in a lungful of air (an annoying habit, that) and threw a death coil.

He couldn't cry with relief when Thassarian's eyes opened, but he wanted to. The deep cuts along Thassarian's body stopped bleeding and sealed themselves. The gaping wound in his chest lingered, refusing to close. Koltira pressed even more runic power into it, gritting his teeth and forcing the gash to heal.

Finally, _finally_ the larger death knight sat up with a groan. It was bliss never before known, hearing his voice after so long. "Koltira?"

 _The name is a question,_ the elf thought in humiliation, _because when he found me just now, I was undeserving of it. What did I do to him before he realized?_ "Here and fervently thankful for it," he said out loud. Then: "Why the hell are you here?"

"That's a good question," Thassarian agreed. "We should have left several seconds ago. Can you walk?"

"Yes," Koltira answered, though he wasn't sure. They both reached out to help each other up at the same time, and somehow both managed to support the other.

"Who's that?" Koltira asked, pointing but not looking.

Thassarian's eyes turned weary. "A comrade. I will say more later."

Koltira burned with shame. "Thassarian, I-"

The other death knight waved a hand. "You were not yourself. Any of our kind would have done the same. It is impossible to resist the call of blood after so long away from it." Together, they began to limp down the corridor. Koltira felt physically weak with relief to hear Thassarian's forgiveness, _acceptance._ A hard knot of anxiety dissolved within him. The shame lingered, untouched.

"Are you going to be all right?"

Koltira noticed that Thassarian had avoided asking if he _was_ alright. The answer to that was obvious. "I...I think so. I'll need time. And a place to hide and heal. Where are we going?"

"The elf mentioned a waste tunnel nearby. I am trying to find it before-"

Footsteps reached their ears.

"-before that." He seized Koltira around the waist, and, with surprising strength and dexterity for someone recently recovered from a sword through their chest, slung the elf over his shoulder. Heedless of the protest he'd provoked, Thassarian began to run. They made it up a flight of stairs and down most of the corridor beyond before the Forsaken caught up.

Koltira slid to the floor as Thassarian drew his runeblades. "Keep walking."

They stood shoulder to shoulder, continuing backwards down the corridor as the first undead came upon them. Koltira was focused on protecting Thassarian from physical attacks, so he threw death coils and dark magic at anything leaping too close. The human death knight was a blur of flashing swords and black blood as he cut down each opponent. Koltira had never seen such an intense look of fury and concentration on his face, nor had he ever been so awed by Thassarian's skill.

Once the first wave lay (more) dead upon the floor, the two death knights exchanged a glance. As one, they turned and fled.

"Just like old times, eh?" Koltira called.

"Shut up and run, Deathweaver," Thassarian grunted.

They would have made it. The floor had sloped up, they'd left the prison block behind. They could see a dark, sluggish river of waste ahead, flowing into a grate set in one wall. "There!" Thassarian shouted. "If we just-"

"Where are you going?" crooned the voice of Sylvanas Windrunner. "We've only just begun!"

The death knights stopped. The voice seemed to come from every direction at once, echoing off dank walls and slithering through their ears. Thassarian barked a word, and a cloud of flame and ash spiraled off of him. The ash clung to an invisible shape between them and the waste tunnel.

The ashy figure chuckled and became Sylvanas. "A good trick," she said, raising her bow, "but it won't save you."

Koltira gripped Thassarian's shoulder as his friend stepped forward. "She wants me alive, not you," the elf murmured. "Stay here. Shield."

Thassarian hesitated, then nodded. Koltira moved toward Sylvanas, flicking Byfrost back and forth in grim anticipation.

The banshee sighed. "Ah, Koltira...you were to be my masterpiece. You would have had it all-power, glory, an inexhaustible supply of people to kill. Think before you throw it away."

"What's that?" Koltira asked, anger coloring his words. "I couldn't understand you through the blood madness. Did you just say 'Koltira, please slit my petite elven throat'?"

Sylvanas snarled and loosed her arrow.

Koltira dodged instinctively, but the shaft struck an invisible wall and spun harmlessly away. The banshee's eyes narrowed.

They attacked each other from a distance, her letting fly with her ebony arrows, him throwing every bit of runic power, every bit of rage and hatred, into torrents of plague, ice, and blood fever. He called to mind the images Sylvanas had shown him, the twisted illusions he'd been forced to endure. His power swelled.

Thassarian, meanwhile, maintained the shield. Every blow to it lessened his control, and soon the strain was visible on his face. In his storm of power and fury, Koltira realized that Sylvanas was doing more damage to them than they were to her. Death knight magic could only do so much, and Byfrost's runes would soon be depleted. The sword needed blood, pain, or death to keep feeding him its strength. The standoff, with Sylvanas steadily wearing down Thassarian's shield and Koltira doing only minor damage to her, would need to end, and soon. If the death knights kept on as they were, they would die.

For the first time, the elf felt a thin stab of fear.

Thassarian was shielding. Any heroics fell to Koltira.

"I have an idea," the blood elf shouted to Thassarian.

His friend groaned. "Remember the last time you said that?"

"I found your arm again! It was _fine._ "

"Such an adorable married couple you two make!" Sylvanas cut in, loosing three arrows at once. "It's a shame I'll have to kill you both."

Thassarian staggered suddenly. The next arrow Sylvanas fired grazed Koltira's cheek. Now or never. Using the last remnants of Byfrost's power, he unleashed a wave of sonic force, blasting everyone away and cracking the stone around them. The air rang with an unpleasant high note. Both Sylvanas and Thassarian lay briefly stunned upon the floor. Koltira lunged at the banshee and managed to land a solid slash across her chest before she snarled, "Fool!" and batted him away with her bow.

Koltira flew backwards and struck the stone wall with bone-jarring force. Dazed, he stumbled to his feet and caught an arrow in the gut.

With a shudder like a last breath, a stone block shook free of the ceiling and shattered against the floor, heart-startingly close to where Thassarian was regaining his footing. Koltira, using his acute elven powers of perception, noticed that the corridor was caving in on them. "Thassarian, go!" he cried.

Sylvanas, meanwhile, danced back as she avoided a falling stone. She cried out as another shattered her left arm. She could no longer use her bow.

Koltira leapt after her with a triumphant shout of "Selama ashal'anore, bitch!" as Thassarian stumbled towards the grate.

With a look of utter, chilling hatred, Sylvanas fled towards safer ground, Koltira in pursuit.

"Get back here!" roared Thassarian. "The damn tunnel is falling!"

The elf hesitated, wasting precious moments as he watched Sylvanas's dwindling figure. Byfrost urged him on, told him to seek, kill, devour. More blocks of stone fell around him. With a curse in his native language, Koltira turned and raced back to Thassarian, who had wrenched the grate open. It would be a tight fit, even assuming it didn't cave in. Waving for Thassarian to go first, Koltira summoned what power he could to stabilize their exit. Hopefully, it would be enough.

It was a long, filthy crawl. Nose and mouth filling with revolting, brackish water, Koltira was unsurprised when their escape route emptied into Lordamere Lake. He and Thassarian swam for the surface.

"We need to circle back around," Thassarian rumbled. "We have a ride out of here. I think."

Weighed down by runeblades and, in Thassarian's case, armor, it took them a while to reach the shore. When they staggered onto land, Koltira spent a moment in exultation. He could see the sky and stars, feel the wind, and this was no illusion.

"Bloodmist," Thassarian grunted. Koltira understood. He concentrated, reaching with his mind, until Bloodmist burst through the earth, shaking his mane clear of dirt.

 _Hey, boy, did you miss me?_

Once Thassarian had summoned Dusk and both death knights were mounted, they were off into the lightening dawn. When they found Thassarian's camp, Koltira's jaw dropped. "Is that a Vanquisher?"

"Yes," Thassarian said. "His name is Little Pup. Long story."

The undead dragon seemed troubled. It shook its head as they approached, backing away with a keening cry. Thassarian reached out a hand. "We're friends. You remember me." The dragon raised its wings slightly and gave a pitiful whine.

"She's not coming back," Thassarian said brusquely. "We need to leave, or we'll share her fate."

Koltira knew then that this Vanquisher had belonged to the elf whose throat he'd torn out earlier. Perhaps the dragon could still smell her blood on him. He looked down, ashamed.

"That's right," Thassarian said, unaware of Koltira's distress. "Settle down." He ran a hand over a wing joint, and the dragon seemed to relax. Taking the opportunity, the death knight pulled himself into its saddle. "Ready, Koltira?"

The elf forced a grin. "Certainly." Taking Thassarian's hand, he mounted the Vanquisher behind him. With a gentle urging from Thassarian, the dragon took three great, galloping steps and launched itself skyward, tattered wings straining to gain altitude. Koltira whooped as the ground fell away and air rushed past, whistling through the Vanquisher's ribcage. Only very, very rarely had he ever flown. He always enjoyed the sensation immensely.

Gradually, the events of the past few weeks faded from his mind. He gripped Thassarian's waist, thinking that eventually he would need to face those memories. But not today. He was free, safe, and alone with Thassarian. He thoroughly intended to enjoy himself.

"I never knew you were good with animals," Koltira called. "If Valanar were here, he'd call you a softheart."

"And I'll call you a grease splatter if you don't shut up and let me concentrate," Thassarian countered.

Once they reached a decent elevation, Koltira tried once more to establish a conversation. "I...I suppose I should thank you."

"Don't hurt yourself," Thassarian said in dark amusement.

Koltira flushed. "I'm grateful! That's the second time you've saved me. I just..." He shook his head. "I didn't think you'd really come."

"Then you're a fool," Thassarian shot back gruffly, but Koltira had known him long enough to hear the vulnerability beneath his words.

"I was terrified that you'd come," Koltira said quietly. "That I'd be too far into the blood madness to stop myself..." He lapsed into silence, feeling the dark memories just around the next corner. _Too soon._

Thassarian was mute for so long, hands gripping the Vanquisher's reins with undue force, that Koltira was beginning to feel concerned. "You wouldn't have," the human death knight said with offhanded certainty.

Koltira felt a sudden warmth race through him. Even after all that had happened, all that he'd done, Thassarian still believed in him. Thassarian still trusted him. "So did you mean what you said before? About us being better off factionless?"

"I was never really part of the Alliance," Thassarian admitted. "They let me wear its colors, but I don't think they ever trusted me. Am I right in thinking that you no longer feel any particular affiliation with the Horde?"

Koltira smirked. "Hmm… By 'affiliation', do you mean deep-seated loathing and mistrust?" He sobered. "Where will we go?"

Thassarian shrugged. "Around. I've been told that adventurers turn a nice profit. We could try our hands at being sellswords."

Koltira imagined it: He and Thassarian traveling Azeroth, fighting side by side and raking in gold. He rather liked that conjured picture. "A way to sate our hungers and get rich. I like the way you think."

They flew on, sometimes exchanging words, sometimes lapsing into companionable silence. Every mile they put between them and the Undercity softened the sharp, cruel memories that place contained, easing the tension in the air. By the time the sun began its slow ascent, they were well into the Arathi Highlands.

"Don't know about you," Koltira said, watching the gaudy orange display, "but I could use a bit of a rest."

Thassarian said nothing, merely angled the Vanquisher downwards, where they came to a landing on the shore of a small pond. Koltira slid off with a small groan, muscles stiff from the long flight. He noticed his friend watching him, concern hidden behind careful eyes. _Concern._ Supposedly alien to a death knight.

Arthas had tried to erase emotion in order to create the perfect soldiers. The result was something that could still feel but harbored guilt for doing so. Something inhuman, yet still alive. Something cracked and broken. This was the existence of a death knight after the war. Nothing was wrong because nothing was right.

Koltira allowed Thassarian to heal his remaining injuries, then returned the favor. The routine was so familiar, so soothing to a broken mind. Sylvanas had mockingly referred to this connection as love. To her, it was something unknown and shameful, a _wrongness_ in need of purging. Maybe it was wrong, Koltira thought. Maybe death knights weren't supposed to love. Maybe they weren't capable of it. Whatever the truth, whatever it really was that he felt for Thassarian, he wasn't going to give it up, the world and natural order be damned. No matter what came.

"Tira, stop staring at the sky. We've still got work to do."

Koltira snapped back to himself. "I was having a moment of quiet introspection," he sniffed.

"Elder gods, you're even more pretentious than I remembered," Thassarian grumbled fondly. "Would your high and mightiness like rabbit's blood or raptor?"

"Let's kill something dangerous," Koltira said.

"You're welcome to do so. I've had my fill of dangerous for today."

" _Brawwwk,_ " Koltira whispered.

Thassarian's head snapped around to glare at him. "Oh, so you want _danger,_ elf? I'll give you the fight of your life…"

It was a brief but satisfying scuffle that quickly turned into something slower and heavier. It was fierce and forgiving. It was a way to forget. Each was caught so entirely in having the other, in having this togetherness, that the lightening sky went unnoticed.

A new day crept over Azeroth.

* * *

 _Fin_

* * *

 ** _AN - And so it ends. Thank you all for a lovely journey and some truly wonderful feedback._**

 ** _Just a few last-minute notes: Esharae is, in fact, my main in WoW. Her weird, seemingly random abilities are all things she can do in-game and there wasn't much time to develop them in the story. Meanwhile, I guessed at the abilities of Thassarian and Koltira based on my own experiences playing dk. If you like Warcraft fics and aren't too sick of this writing style, please check out Chasing the Wind \- my friend Nimtheriel and I are writing it (her account)._**

 ** _See you all in Azeroth._**

 ** _\- -Rose_**


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